


Troubled

by polexia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, John isn't a bad father, LLF Comment Project, Mentions of bad stuff, Minor Character Death, Multi, No onscreen noncon, Nothing bad happens to the main characters, Panic Attacks, Psychologist!Dean, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Social Worker!Cas, heed the tags, mary is alive, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-18 02:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polexia/pseuds/polexia
Summary: Dean Winchester is your typical, all-American man: He’s got a great relationship with his family, he loves cold beer and apple pie, and his prized possession is a classic ‘67 Chevy Impala. He’s also a psychologist whose patients are prepubescent children who have rather rough lives. He’s learned in the five years he’s been a practising psychologist to not become attached more than strictly necessary. But one patient changes all that, and to help her, he finds himself going to further lengths than he has ever gone before.Castiel Novak never wanted to be a parent all by himself, but his ex-wife’s abrupt departure from his and his daughter’s lives gave him no choice. He’s a single father of a teenager, and between the sudden roller-coaster that is her impending puberty and the sudden case thrust upon him by his superior, Life is increasingly causing him to search for something – or, rather, someone – to help him with the chaotic mess that’s become his existence.Dean is determined to help his patient. Castiel is determined to survive parenthood (relatively) unscathed. But can each accomplish their goals alone?





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this fic for, well, over a year. I've finally decided it was time to work on it some more and get it posted. There will only be one new chapter every other week (or so), because it's not quite done being written yet, and I don't want to lose momentum.
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](http://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:  
> 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * "<3" as extra kudos
>   * Reader-to-Reader interaction
> 

> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)
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> This author responds to comments.

The psychologist watches the little girl from across the room, his fingers steepled together. His eyes narrow when she hunches her small body closer to the dry-erase board; he’s no longer able to see what she is drawing. He is curious as to what has her so engrossed, but he’s learned from training, and experience, that sometimes it is better to wait for the child to come forward without prompting. It isn’t easy, being understanding enough to not push his patients until they are ready. All he wants to do is get to the bottom of their issues and help them get better. Not fix them – no, that would imply the children are broken – but to assist them on their path to healing. He knows the kids deserve to have happier lives than they have when they come to him. He watches her erase her art before walking away to the small sandbox in the corner of the room.  
  
Emma Lindstrom has been a patient of his for five weeks so far. For one hour, three times a week, she sits in his office without speaking more than four words a session, busying herself with whatever she finds to be interesting enough. What she does is rarely an activity that requires him to ask any questions, but he doesn’t suggest that she talk. Emma’s contentedness is more vital to her progress at this stage than his probing inquiries. The psychologist almost feels bad about having to charge her parents for the sessions when seemingly nothing is being done, but the contents of her file easily remove the feelings of guilt. She’s come a long way in just fifteen hour-long sessions: The first time she’d been in his office by herself, he’d had to call her mother back into the room within ten minutes. The woman had led her daughter from the building, battling tears. Now, Emma enters the room quietly, stands by the door until he greets her, then makes her way to whatever area she wants to be in.  
  
He glances at his phone screen for the time. “All right, Miss Emma. It seems like the hour is up. Are you ready to go back to your mom?”

Emma drops the now-headless Barbie into the hole she’s made in the sand, nodding silently. He follows her from the office and instructs her to sit in one of the chairs while he talks to her mother. The brunette plasters a weak, shaky smile on her face as she approaches him. He pulls her into the smaller room off the main waiting room.

“How’d it go today?”

“There weren’t any outbursts, so I’m pretty sure we can count that as an improvement. Unfortunately, she didn’t talk much this session, but I’m hoping that Friday’s session is better.”

“I’m just…”

“I know, Ms Lindstrom. But it’ll be okay. She’ll start talking about whatever’s bothering her on her own time. Until then, just keep bringing her here, and I’ll do all I can do to help.”

“You’ve already done so much. Even though she still isn’t talking or eating much, and she keeps having nightmares… She’s better. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something that’s different about her lately. When she gets in her moods, she’s able to start pulling herself out of them more easily. And I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll see you guys Friday.”

She nods. He watches them walk from the lobby before heading back to his desk to add notes into Emma’s file.

_Still not speaking. Decapitated Barbie and attempted to bury doll in the sand. Her mother says she’s still having nightmares – no changes in previous eating habits. Another appointment Fri. Going to try a different tactic._

With a sigh, he closes the folder, slides it into its place in the filing cabinet, and leans back in his chair. He loves his job, but sometimes, he isn’t sure he’s doing enough. And that feeling isn’t one that Dr Dean Winchester likes at all.


	2. 1. dean

It is too damn early. Dean doesn’t want to wake up, but his alarm is blaring, reminding him that it’s another day with things to do. His hand snakes out from beneath his blankets and smacks at the snooze button. He sinks back down into the warmth of his bed, sighs blissfully at the silence, and closes his eyes once more. Five minutes later, however, he finds himself landing hard on the floor, groaning at the impact.

“Why the hell do you have two alarms set?” a sleep-roughened voice grumbles from above him.

He massages his lower back as he clambers to his feet. “Actually, I have five.”

“What? _Why_?”

“Because I never wake up to just one. Coffee’s probably ready by now.”

He pulls on a pair of boxers before leaving the room. He can hear her shifting in his bed, the rustle of the sheets the only noise coming from his bedroom. _For three more minutes anyway_ , he thinks as he pulls a mug out of the cupboard. The percolator hisses its completion; he pours the scalding, liquid caffeine into the Star Wars mug his receptionist got him for Christmas. He chuckles to himself when the third alarm begins screaming from the bathroom, but the laughter fades away when the woman from last night (and this morning) shuffles into the hallway and glares at him.

“Turn it off. Turn them _all_ off.”

“Sorry.” He turns to the alarm clock that sits on top of the refrigerator, pushing the switch into the ‘off’ position. “There’s another one in my closet. Can you get that one?”

She raises an eyebrow but disappears from sight. He finishes adding sugar to his coffee; when he turns around again, she’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen with one hand planted on her bare hip. He lets his eyes roam over her naked form, the exposed curves of her body. His mouth runs dry.

She smirks. “What do you say we shower together? Y’know, that whole ‘conserve water’ thing, let me send you off to work with a smile on that pretty face?”

Dean’s only response is to set his mug on the counter and rush after her as her squeals and giggles fill the air. By the time they make it out of the shower, the coffee has gone cold, and he’s forced to rush out the door. The woman – Abby Something-or-Other – gives him a lingering kiss and an offer for a repeat performance before making her way out to her car. He keeps the smile plastered on his face until the apple-red Corvette vanishes around the corner. He sighs heavily and gazes around at the surrounding houses. None of his neighbours are in sight. He knows Mr Turner is in the hospital from a heart attack; his daughter flew in last night from some big city, her shiny European car sitting in her father’s driveway as proof of her existence. The other homes are silent, the occupants either at work or still sleeping.

With another deep exhale, Dean walks across the damp grass to where his own car sits prettily in the driveway. He slides into the driver’s seat of Baby, a gorgeous ‘67 Chevy Impala that his father gave him for his sixteenth birthday on the condition that Dean fix it up himself. And he had. The classic car runs just as smoothly now as she did the day she rolled off the assembly line. Her interior smells strongly of leather, his aftershave, and the whisky he used to pilfer from Uncle Bobby’s collection on nights he sneaked out of the house to see Cassie. Over a decade later, the memories are still as strong as ever. He turns the key in the ignition, smiling widely at the soft roar of the engine, and reverses out of the driveway. ACDC fills the air as he drives to the building he leases with two other businesses. As he parks, he can see that Pamela’s car already sits in her usual spot. Though none of the lessees are exactly best friends, he has never had a problem with the woman who runs the free clinic in the larger left wing of the building; in fact, he enjoys their back-and-forth banter that ensues every time they see each other, and he respects that she’s put so much time and effort into running a place for low- to no-income people to get quality medical care. The back third of the structure is reserved for an all-natural vitamin shop run by a married couple ー Chuck and Naomi, if Dean remembers their names correctly. The sign on the building index gives only the name of the store (Shurley It’s Organic!), not the names of the owners. Dean chuckled at the pun the first time he’d seen it.

With a soft sigh, he locks the doors to his car and crosses the parking lot. Pam stands by the long desk that sits near the door to the clinic; she gives him a cheery wave before turning to walk to a deeper part of the makeshift doctor’s office. He watches her go, making note of the way her jeans hug her hips, legs, and ass tightly. She isn’t his type, per se, but he can _always_ appreciate a gorgeous form. He steps through the door to his own office, the one that reads **Dean Winchester ー Child Psychologist** , and his receptionist glances up from the computer in front of her.

“Morning, boss!”

“Didn’t see your eyesore out front today, Char. It break down again?”

“We’re not discussing that,” Charlie damn near growls, glaring, but within seconds, she’s smiling again. “I think we’ll be LARPing by next month!”

“Awesome. Just let me know.”

“Of course, handmaiden. Kevin will be here at eight-thirty.”

“Thanks. I’m gonna go work on some files.”

“What you need to do is actually _organise_ those files.”

Dean cuffs Charlie gently on the back of the head as he makes his way to the small room attached to the reception area. A small stack of manila folders clutters the top of the filing cabinet, and dozens more are piled on the floor along the wall ー all past patients whose files need finalised and put into their places in the storage drawers. Charlie was telling the truth: He’s gotten rather lazy with keeping up on his paperwork. He sighs and picks through the folders on his desk until he finds the one marked _**Tran, Kevin**_.

> **_Name:_ ** _Kevin Tran_  
>  **_Age:_ ** _8_  
>  **_Reason for Visit:_ ** _Violent outbursts. Acting out. Nightmares. (started after father’s death)_  
>  **_Notes:_ **  
>  _4/10 – Was quiet during session today. Didn’t play or talk. Just sat and stared at the wall until the hour was up. Mother says he refuses to speak at home._  
>  _4/17 – Talked a little while building sandcastles. Said his nightmares are getting scarier. No details._  
>  _4/24 – Didn’t show up today. Mother said he screamed and cried when she tried to get him out the door._  
>  _5/15 – Nightmares have disappeared for the most part. Dreams were of dead father haunting him and pulling him into grave, burying him alive. Terrified it will actually happen._  
>  _5/22 – Made a list of goals today: 1. Bring grades up 2. Get into college 3. Marry Channing (first ‘girlfriend’ – brightened significantly while talking about her) 4. Have a million dogs._  
>  _5/29 – Said nightmares have come back ー 5 in the last week. Quiet again._  
>  _6/19 – Locked himself in bathroom during session. Mother took him home 20 minutes in._  
>  _8/28 – Seems to be doing better. No nightmares reported in over a month. School is going well. Brought first week’s report ー all good comments from teachers. Appointments now every 2 weeks._  
>  _9/11 – No change reported. He and Channing are still ‘dating’ – he says he gave her an engagement ring. They’re planning a Christmas ‘wedding’. I’m invited._

These are the last notes he’d taken regarding Kevin. After that final September appointment, Mrs Tran had asked whether such regular appointments were necessary; she’d gotten her son back. As the child’s psychologist, Dean agreed that Kevin had reasserted himself into his life rather well. Now, Kevin comes once a month unless a session is needed more often.

“Kevin’s here.”

“Thank you, Charlie. I’ll be out in a sec.”

Charlie nods before her red hair disappears from view. He gathers up a pen, Kevin’s file, and his cell phone ー used only for the clock. He’s found that a few of his patients have reacted negatively to the ticking of an analogue clock, so he removed all of them from his office. A large digital clock now sits on the counter in front of Charlie, the only timepiece in the entire office, besides his phone. He steps out in the waiting area. Kevin’s face splits into a wide smile at the sight of Dean, and he jumps up from the circular table at which he was colouring.

“Doctor Winchester, guess what! I’m nine now!”

“What? No way. I say you look about twelve, kiddo, but if you’re sure you’re only nine…”

“Ask my mom, she’ll tell you!”

Dean laughs. “I believe you. C’mon, you know where to go. I’ll have him back out soon, Mrs Tran.”

The woman smiles and pulls a book from her oversized purse. He follows Kevin’s exuberant steps into the room that holds all of the ‘tools’ Dean uses with his patients. Dean closes the door behind him as the child runs to the sandbox in the corner; once the psychologist is seated in the navy blue armchair, he opens the file and scrawls a quick note about Kevin’s attitude in the waiting lobby. The child is in the middle of filling a yellow plastic pail with sand when he speaks.

“I had a bad dream again last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, but I woke myself up from it and told myself it wasn’t real ー just like you taught me to do! It didn’t scare me as bad as before.” Kevin flips the bucket over, pushing down on the bottom-now-top, then glances up at Dean with wide, brown eyes. “Does that mean I’m fixed now?”

“You were never broken in the first place, kid. You were going through a scary time, and your brain was just trying to adjust to that change. But yeah, I think your brain understands better now.” Dean sighs, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m not gonna tell you that the bad dreams or feeling sad or scared aren’t ever gonna come back, because I don’t like lying. What I can say honestly is that when they come back, you’ll have your mom to help, okay?”

“And you?”

“And me, if you need me.”

Kevin is silent for a few minutes, mulling over Dean’s words. The sound of sand scraping the insides of the pail as Kevin pulls it away, leaving behind a solid structure, is the only noise to be heard. The sun leaves a golden trail along the grey carpet, and dust motes float, swirl, dance effortlessly in the light. Dean relaxes into the chair; the fabric is warm and rough against his skin. The scent of the air freshener that Charlie loves to use ー cashmere woods or whatever it’s called – lingers in the air, even through closed doors. Suddenly, Kevin’s head snaps up.

“I’ll have Channing, too! She’s my wife, y’know.”

“Oh, yeah. The Christmas wedding. How was it?”

“Cold,” mumbles the child, and Dean fights back laughter at the no-nonsense, matter-of-fact manner in which Kevin has answered.

“Yeah, kid, December can be pretty chilly.”

“But she was so pretty. I think it was worth it.”

“Well, congratulations, and I hope you enjoy married life.”

“Are you married, Doctor Winchester?”

“Uh, no, I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t found a girl I love enough to marry.”

“Well, what about a boy?”

Dean chokes on the air he is inhaling and splutters, “Uh, what? Um… So, Kevin, how’s school going?”

Thankfully, the question puts an end to little Kevin’s inquiries. He spends the next forty-five minutes regaling Dean with stories about school, his friends, and how much he hates his chores but he does them anyway because “Mom always asks nicely, and you should always, _always_ be nice to people who are nice to you, right?” By the time Mrs Tran exits the building with Kevin in tow, Dean feels like he’s been put through the wringer. He isn’t closeted; in fact, he’s been out as bisexual for almost fifteen years. But Kevin’s question was so unexpected, Dean hadn’t known how to react. He hates avoiding answering his patients’ questions, but he just isn’t so sure their parents would be as accepting of whatever answer Dean gives. He sighs and adds Kevin’s folder to the ever-growing stack on his file cabinet. Charlie pokes her head into the room.

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“I’m fine, Char.”

“Is Kevin gonna be okay?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, he’s going to be fine.”

Charlie’s interrogation is cut short by the phone ringing. She sends him a playful glare as he passes behind her to head toward the bathroom. Once he’s finished doing his business, he washes his hands, slips into his office, and grabs a pile of folders off the cabinet before settling down in his chair. He has nearly an hour before his next appointment; it’s best to spend those fifty minutes doing something productive ー or so he tells himself. He’s gotten through _Adler, Marvin_ to _Milton, Anna_ by ten-thirty. Lisa Braeden and her son Ben show up right on time at half past, and Dean closes the door behind once Ben is busy with the building blocks.

“So how’s it going, kiddo?”

The child shrugs, pauses with a blue wooden rectangle dangling precariously from his fingertips. “It’s fine.”

“How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Anything you wanna talk about?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Dean shifts in the armchair to get comfortable for the long hour of silence. Ben started coming for regular visits two weeks into August, on a recommendation from his school counsellor. His classmates had started teasing him for a myriad of reasons, their favourite insult being the fact that Ben’s father left before the child was even born. Ben had recounted one experience of the other kids claiming his father had taken one look at Ben’s ugly face and run for the hills before he got stuck with such a disgusting-looking child. His mother, Lisa, had told Dean she’d been trying to help her son, but Ben was shutting her out, and nothing she said or did seemed to make any difference. Ben had enclosed himself in four walls and refused to come out. Dean hasn’t made much progress with getting Ben to open up, but he forces himself not to push too hard. Bullied children are always much harder to pry out of their shells.

His phone buzzes in his pocket at the end of the session, the vibration sending a tickling sensation through his thigh. Dean dismisses the timer, rises to his feet, and waits for Ben to exit the room first. Lisa stands as soon as she hears the door open. Ben veers around her outstretched arms, instead opting to grab his handheld game from her purse. He plops down into a plastic chair and seals himself away from reality. Dean motions for Lisa to follow him into the room off the lobby, so that the nine-year-old can’t hear them talking.

“Still nothing,” sighs Lisa, not even a question at this point.

Dean shrugs in sympathy. “Not yet. But, look, don’t get discouraged. Sometimes, these things take a while.”

“It’s just… What the hell could those kids have done to him, to make him like this?”

“You know ー”

“I know, I know,” Lisa snaps with a wave of her hand. “Even though he’s a child, he still deserves the right to privacy.”

“I’m not saying this to piss you off, I promise.” He pauses, lets his defensive words die in his throat before considering his next sentence. “How about this. Next session, I’ll bring up the idea of having a group session with you, me, and him. If he’s comfortable with it, we’ll go from there.”

“Okay. Thanks, Doctor Winchester.”

He watches her lead Ben out of the office before making his way to where Charlie sits. Her red hair is now pulled into a loose braid, showing off her dangling silver earrings, the Deathly Hallows pendants flashing in the harsh fluorescent lights. Purple earbuds circle around her ears; he can hear the tinny thump of bass in whatever electronic song she’s listening to. A soft smile spreads across his face, and he reaches out to gently tap her on the forehead. She jumps in her seat, and her eyes widen as her gaze darts to his face. She glares and turns her iPod off.

“You’re a grade-A asshole, Winchester.”

“Sorry, Red. Lunch run. Want anything?”

“The usual, I suppose.”

“‘Kay. I’ll be back.”

He pulls his keys from his pocket, locks the door to the office. Pam is finishing up an exam when he pokes his head through her door. A homeless woman sits in the plastic chair next to the main desk. A sense of overwhelming defeat radiates from her stooped position as she keeps her shoulders hunched forward, and the large trash bag in her arms reeks of dirt, unwashed clothes, and soured body odour. A sheet of lank, steel grey hair, shiny and greasy from lack of showering, falls around her gaunt face; her washed-out blue eyes are unfocused as she stares into space. She doesn’t move – not even the twitch of an eyelid – when Dean clears his throat.

Pamela shoots him a wide smile. “Sorry, can’t chat right now, Rapunzel. Claudia, why don’t you go ahead behind curtain four, and I’ll be right there, all right?”

“I’m heading out for lunch. Can I grab you anything?”

“Nah, sweetie, I’m good, but thanks.”

When he returns to the building after his food-run, he has to laugh: Charlie has taped a large sign to the glass, the words _Out to lunch ー be back at 1!_ followed by a cartoon drawing of the Vulcan salute. The neon-green of the highlighter clashes horribly with the bright yellow paper, making it almost illegible. He blinks away the disorienting image, struggling to hold the drink tray and bag of food in one hand while he unlocks the door with the other. A hand shoots out right as the drink carrier starts tipping off his arm. He looks up to see who has saved him from a lot of cleaning.

“Thanks, man.”

Chuck smiles nervously. “It’s nothing. I was restocking one of our shelves and saw you out here, figured I’d lend you a hand.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Like I said, it’s nothing. Just being neighbourly, is all.” His blue-grey eyes cast downward; his stance screams of faux-confidence that’s rapidly disappearing. He runs a hand through his curly brown hair, and Dean catches sight of the dozens of silver strands streaking through the unruly locks. “Well, I better get back.”

“Right. Thanks again for, uh, you know, saving the sodas.”

Chuck gives a quick nod and quirk of his lips, and disappears into his organic vitamin shop. Dean steps through his own embossed doors to find Charlie lying flat on the floor, eyes closed, with her earbuds placed in her ears once more. Once she notices his presence, she hurriedly jumps to her feet and rushes to relieve him of his food-carrying duties. They arrange themselves around the table in the room Charlie dubbed “The Important Discussion with the ‘Rents Room” and eat in companionable silence, neither needing to actually say anything.

When Dean had first started his practice, he’d gotten lucky to stumble upon this building. His parents helped with the initial costs; John and Dean argued for months about repayment, but the Winchester patriarch finally relented and allowed his son to pay the money back within the first two years. Pamela ー she rejects the idea of being called ‘Dr Barnes’ ー had welcomed to the building by landing him his first patient, a child named Max who was severely beaten on multiple occasions by his drunk of a father and even his uncle. That was also the first time Dean had met Jody Mills and Missouri Moseley, a short, stout black woman who made Dean feel like a little kid being wrapped in a tight, motherly embrace. Neither sheriff or social worker had asked him questions he legally couldn’t answer, but their inquiries about Max’s mental condition had been straight to the point. He’d had to attend a court hearing and testify against the Miller men. The two women were the first he contacted if, and unfortunately when, he feared for a patient’s life.

It was through Sam that Dean had met Charlie. His brother had shown up to the yearly Winchester family reunion-slash-barbecue at their parents’ house with the redheaded, self-proclaimed geek following close behind. According to Sam, Charlie had run into him as she was hurrying out of a Starbucks, spilling her mocha-cappuccino-whatever-crap all over his suit. He’d only been stopping in on his lunch break before rushing back to work, and going back to his office while covered in coffee and artificially-flavoured syrups would have made a terrible impression with his higher-ups, but Sam, in typical Sam-the-giant-teddy-bear fashion, had waved off her apologies, laughing about the incident the entire time. Somehow, her ‘sorry’s had turned into a thirty-minute conversation about Harry Potter, fate, and the utter unfairness of the justice system, and led to their fast friendship. Talking to Charlie for the first time had sent Dean’s head spinning; she’d managed to elicit opinions out of him that he normally would have kept deep inside, under lock and key ー such as his love for live-action role-playing and all things Star Wars. Before dinner had even started, Dean had found himself offering her a job as a receptionist at his office, not even caring if she was already employed (though she did eventually assure him she had a ‘freelance’ sort of job, so “Hells yes!”). There are now many nights they head to the bar down the street and drink away their feelings of helplessness at not being able to magically take away the bad aspects of the kids’ lives. Charlie isn’t legally allowed to know details, but even she can sense the troubles they’re going through.

By the time the office closes, Dean is exhausted. He had an initial appointment with a new patient whose father explained he was having night terrors and wetting the bed. Then, Dean had to spend an hour with Marvin, a compulsive liar who derives an immense amount of pleasure from the lavish stories he tells. Dean has been seeing Marvin for nearly two years, but the child’s love of creating fantastical tales out of nothing hasn’t dissipated. Dean’s already made arrangements for another psychologist to take the case once Marvin turns twelve.

Three o’clock brought Krissy. Missouri had been the one to come to the office the year before in regards to Krissy Chambers. At only nine years old, she’s been bounced between thirteen different foster homes. Missouri’s assertion that the child was having a difficult time adjusting to the latest home, which was in a completely different state than the one she’d grown up in, was proven in the very first session. She had a bad attitude and fear-induced cleverness that came from negative living environments and far too many years of neglect and abuse; a pale line, faded a rosy silver against her skin, still circles her neck ー a souvenir of a home she was placed in when she was six. Ragged scars cover her back, all testaments to what she’s endured. Thankfully, Missouri is particular about the homes in which the children in her care are placed: Krissy’s newest family is a universe apart from the terrible ones she suffered through. They immediately accepted her into the family dynamic and have done everything Dean suggests to make the transition easier on Krissy. He has to admit that she’s flourishing quite nicely with the Hawthornes.

Dean sighs as soon as he steps through the front door of his house, collapses onto his couch with a cold beer in hand, and turns on the television. Though it’s barely eight o’clock, he’s ready for bed. Charlie seemed disappointed when he declined her offer of a burger and drinks after work, but thankfully, she shrugged it off with no questions asked. He stares around at the plain sage walls of his living room. Nothing adorns the walls to break up the monotony of earthy grey-green. The hardwood floors desperately need to be refinished, and the windows have needed to be replaced for a while now. Between work and spending time with his family, his house isn’t as kept-up with as he wants, but he’s hoping to change that soon. He sinks into a daze, thinking of all the things he’d like to fix up, while mindless crime procedurals play quietly on the TV until the clock on the wall reads eleven. Dean sighs, dropping the empty beer bottles into the trash can, and heads through the darkened halls to his bedroom. His body sinks into the memory foam of his mattress, and he exhales blissfully as cool sheets surround him. As much as he wants to drift right off to sleep, he can’t. He’s too worried about Emma Lindstrom. His brain keeps bringing up scenarios about her home life: _What if she doesn’t come tomorrow, what if something terrible has happened since Wednesday, what if she’s **dead**?_ The red numbers on the bedside alarm clock flip, morph, as time ticks away: **11:30, 12:47, 1:11, 3:52** … With his mind full to the brim of worry and worst-case situations, Dean settles in for a handful of hours’ worth of restless sleep.


	3. 2. castiel

The routine is always the same: Wake up, do yoga, make breakfast, wake Claire, pack her lunch, drop her off at school, then go to work. It’s such a long-done routine that Castiel Novak no longer has to think about what he’s doing as he does it. He just… _does_. Today’s no different.

As Claire eats her oatmeal, Castiel goes to his room to get dressed. The photographs that line on the walls serve as reminders of just how much his little girl has grown. Claire’s no longer the toddler that relies on him for everything; she’s long outgrown all the cuddling and days spent running through the sprinkler in the backyard. Now, at thirteen, she’s far too busy for her dad, spending more time with her friends and less time at home.

She doesn’t look back as she gets out of the car in front of her school. Castiel sighs and watches her join up with a pair of girls. He can’t deny that he’s proud of the young woman she’s becoming, but he misses the times she needed him. It’s been incredibly hard, raising her without her mother, and he wishes Amelia had ever put their daughter first. He’s trying his best, but lately, it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

He drags himself out of his thoughts, drives away. Like every day, he pulls into his parking space and stares at the building. He doesn’t hate his job; he actually loves it for the most part. Being a child welfare caseworker, however great it can feel at times, is emotionally draining more often than not. Too many kids needing help, not enough people willing. With a sigh, he heads inside. Garth smiles at him as Castiel passes, but neither man speaks to each other. Garth’s a great guy, but Castiel has nothing besides job title in common with him. Or “Mr Fizzles”, the sock puppet that Garth uses to encourage kids to talk and tell the truth about their home environments.

Thankfully, Castiel’s schedule – for the morning, at least – is clear, so he spends it catching up on paperwork. The office is filled with the sounds of phones ringing, of his coworkers talking, of cabinet drawers sliding open and clicking shut. Castiel gets only one file updated completely by the time lunch rolls around. He eats at his desk: a turkey and cheese sandwich, carrot sticks and hummus, and strawberry yoghurt. Once his meal is gone, he still has fifteen minutes, so he checks his emails; he isn’t surprised to see a message from Amelia in the electronic inbox. He clicks it open against his better judgment.

_Castiel,_

_You haven’t responded to my last five emails, I know, but I’m not going to stop trying to prove that I’ve changed. It’s been eleven years. Don’t you think you’ve been mad at me for long enough? I’m not the same person anymore._

_How’s Claire? Is she doing okay in school? I bet she’s beautiful now. Has she had her first boyfriend yet? If so, what’s he like? I hope he’s a decent guy who will treat her right. Oh, no… Is she going through the ‘lesbian’ phase that some girls go through? I hope not. Is she in any sports or after-school activities? I really miss her. Can you bring her by to visit sometime?_

_I really am sorry for everything that’s happened, Castiel. I know none of this is what you wanted for our lives. If I could, I’d take it all back. I would in a heartbeat. I made a mistake, and I hated myself for a long time for it. Will you ever forgive me?_

_Always yours,_  
_Amelia_

Castiel feels the usual rush of anger toward his ex-wife. Every email she has sent so far has had the same format, from reminding him how long it’s been since she ruined their lives to asking about Claire, requesting he lets her visit, to claiming what she did was simply a “mistake”, as if that makes any of it better. But Castiel came to terms long ago that it wasn’t a “mistake” to get addicted to drugs then drive while high with their eighteen-month-old daughter in the backseat; it was nothing less than a miracle that Claire survived the crash that killed two of the passengers in the other car. The first thing Castiel did after picking his daughter up from the hospital after the wreck was petition the courts for sole custody of Claire and ask that Amelia’s rights be stripped. He’d been prepared to have to hire a lawyer, but that hadn’t been necessary: The judge granted his request with no deliberation. Filing for and obtaining the divorce was just as simple.

Maybe, in the beginning, Castiel had truly loved Amelia. But those feelings were gone even before his ex-wife murdered two innocent people and ruined the lives of many with her stupid decisions. It had been an unhappy marriage, brought on by the reveal of Amelia’s pregnancy, demanded by their families. Her parents still blame him for her downward spiral, like he could have prevented it. But he’d been just as blindsided as they were by the drug use; he worked at a pharmacy before Claire was born, pulling double-shift after double-shift to be able to afford giving Amelia the life he thought she deserved. That’s all over now, though. Amelia’s in prison for another twenty years, Claire’s healthy and thriving, and Castiel may be lonely but at least he has his daughter.

The afternoon is spent doing three unscheduled home-checks. Only one of the families has made any real improvement; he makes notes for himself to pencil in more surprise inspections for the other two. He returns to the office, locks his files and notes in the filing cabinet, slips the keys in his pocket, and heads toward the door. Missouri calls out a goodbye as he passes her office. He picks Claire up from school and spends the next hour being ignored as she does her homework and scrolls through FaceBook. There are a few times that he opens his mouth to mention her mother, but he lets the words go unspoken. She’s doing just fine without Amelia – he's not going to change that. So he stays quiet on the subject, instead asking about school and Claire’s friends, and wishing – not for the first time – that things were different, easier.

After dinner, Claire wipes down the dining table, and Castiel puts away the leftovers and loads the dishwasher. He watches his daughter as she skims through the movies on the shelf; gazing at her, with her long blonde hair, Castiel is thankful that nobody really remembers what Amelia looks like. It’s easier that way. Now, anyone who notices how little the teenager resembles her father excuses it as her taking after her mother, except for the eyes. More than one person has commented on how eerily similar Castiel and Claire’s vivid blue eyes are. But no one has caught on to the fact that Claire is not biologically his child.

The duo spends the evening watching films until Claire’s eyes are drooping. Castiel sends her off to bed but remains in his spot on the couch long after upstairs has gone quiet. He feels the silence weighing on him like something physical. He stares at the cushion beside him and wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to not be alone, to have someone with whom to share this life and all its domesticity, to have warm arms that hold him through the night. Castiel shakes off the melancholy with a heavy sigh and rises to his feet. After turning off the lights and locking the front door, he takes himself to bed.


	4. 3. dean

Thankfully, Dean makes it to Sunday without losing his composure. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Emma since the last session. It hurts him physically that the child is still suffering silently; all he wants to do is take away her pain. She’s certainly not the first patient he’s had who has a bad life – Hell, his entire practice runs on having patients with bad lives – but he has no doubts that her case is hitting him harder than previous ones. He can’t figure out why, but he knows it’s the truth.

Sighing heavily, Dean steps out of the shower and roughly towels himself dry. He dresses quickly in a pair of worn jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a light flannel shirt that he leaves unbuttoned though he rolls up the sleeves. His cell phone beeps from its place on the bedside table; he scoops it up and thumbs open the newest text message as he brushes his teeth.

**From: Bitch** _Mom wants to know what time you’ll be heading this way_

**To: Bitch** _Walking out the door now_

**From: Bitch** _She says we’ll expect to see you in an hour then._

**To: Bitch** _I hate all of you_  
**To: Bitch** _Does Mom need anything?_

**From: Bitch** _She thinks we have everything but thanks_

**To: Bitch** _Okay. Be there soon, bitch_

**From: Bitch** _Sure you will. Jerk._

Dean spits the toothpaste foam into the sink with a smile and rinses his mouth. Once he’s got his phone tucked into his back pocket, he hurries down the hall, slips on his jacket, and shoves his socked feet into a pair of heavy-duty work boots. He locks the door behind him and makes his way to his car. The day is unseasonably warm for late-February, so it takes less time than usual for Baby to warm up. He switches the cassette in the player for a Zeppelin tape, turning up the volume before backing out his driveway and heading to his parents’.

Sam’s car isn’t sitting out front when Dean pulls up. Instead, a deep blue ‘68 Camaro sits where the Charger would normally be. Dean gives it exactly five seconds of his brain-power before he shrugs it off. He kills the ignition, steps out of the car, and makes his way to the front door of his childhood home. The second he steps inside, he’s assaulted by the delicious scents of roasted garlic potatoes, barbecued pork chops, and peppered green beans. He toes off his boots and hangs up his jacket. His mother is chopping bell peppers for a salad when he enters the kitchen. Sam turns from the fridge, smiling at his older brother.

“I’ll be damned. You weren’t lying.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut it, Sammy. When’d you trade in the Charger?”

“I didn’t.” Sam grins at Dean’s obvious confusion. “The Camaro is my girlfriend’s.”

Dean looks to his mom only to find she’s holding back laughter. “He has a girlfriend?”

At that moment, a petite brunette makes an entrance and leans against Sam’s side. He moves to wrap an arm around her shoulder but stops, making a few hand gestures that catch her attention. She giggles, a throaty sound, before tapping Sam’s lips; the tips of his ears turn red even as he starts speaking.

“This is my brother Dean. Dean, this is my girlfriend Eileen.”

“Hi, Dean, it’s nice to meet you.” Eileen steps forward with an outstretched hand. “Sam’s told me a lot about you.”

“I, uh, wish I could say the same,” replies Dean even as they shake hands; his head is spinning. Sam has a _girlfriend_ and managed to keep it from Dean?

Eileen cocks her head like she knows what he’s thinking, but she doesn’t say anything about it, just walks over to Mary. Sam snaps his fingers and jerks his chin in the direction of the living room. Dean follows quietly. As soon as they’re out of earshot of the women, he rounds on his brother.

“How’d you manage to keep her a secret, Sammy?”

“Before you get mad –”

“I’m not mad, I’m shocked!”

“– I didn’t want to say anything about her because, well, I knew Mom would want me to bring her around immediately, and that just… It seemed like a bit much before the six-month mark. I mean, Jess met you guys after we’d been dating less than a month, and we broke up a couple years later. Same with Amelia.”

“Hey, Amelia was not our fault. We had nothing to do with Don coming back.”

“I know. I’m not saying it’s your fault. I just feel like it’s a sign. Y’know, introduce the girlfriend to the family too early, and the relationship will fail.”

Dean pauses, mulling over Sam’s words. “I don’t think it works that way, but sure, guess it makes sense.”

“Thanks, Dean. Um… I don’t know if you noticed –”

“She’s deaf? Yeah, kinda picked up on that already, Sasquatch.”

“Why are you such a jerk?”

“I dunno, why are you such a bitch?”

Sam shoves Dean’s shoulder playfully. “Asshole.”

Before they can get into their typical wrestling match, Sam darts past his brother to join their mother and his girlfriend in the kitchen. Dean smiles to himself and follows at a much more sedated pace. John is coming through the front door as Dean passes through the hall. The older man claps a hand onto his son’s shoulder, and Dean asks about the business at the auto-shop that John co-owns and runs with Bobby.

Dinner is slightly less boisterous than usual, due to everyone trying to make it easier on Eileen to keep up with the conversations. Dean sits back and lets his parents ask all the questions; Sam’s girlfriend turns out to be a little spitfire, all sass and feistiness, though she’s also incredibly sweet. She compliments Mary’s cooking, talks with John about cars, and asks about Dean’s job which only serves to remind him about Emma. He can tell Eileen is puzzled by his suddenly-abrupt answers, but he isn’t able to shake away the dark clouds over his mood. Thankfully, Sam understands and quickly gets her to regale the family with stories about the more rambunctious residents in the nursing home where she works.

Dean helps Mary clear the table once everyone has had their fill of food. She waits until it’s only the two of them before placing a hand on his arm. He’s tempted to shrug her off, but he can’t; instead, he turns toward his mother and allows her to wrap him in a tight embrace.

“What is it, honey?”

“I… One of my patients… I still can’t get her to talk. It’s been months, and she’s still closed-off.”

Mary sighs, rubbing his back. “Any theories?”

“Honestly? I have a few,” he murmurs, thinking of the way Emma reacts every other Friday. “But nothing concrete, which means I can’t even find a way in without potentially making things worse.”

“You should trust your gut by now, baby. I think you should tell Jody or Missouri of your theories if you think it might help.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Mary finally releases him, and he swipes at his eyes, takes a deep breath. When he feels more steady, he starts scraping plates clean and hands the dishes off to his mother so she can wash them. It takes very little time for the kitchen to be tidied. Mary hesitates in the doorway, staring at Dean with an expression on her face that means she wants to say something, but in the end, she merely gives him a reassuring smile and goes to join John, Sam, and Eileen in the living room.

Left alone, Dean leans against the counter, scrubs a hand over his face. He knows his family is waiting for him to find his way to the other room, but he doesn’t want to face them – not yet. He doesn’t think he can handle Sam’s pitying looks or John’s attempt at advice. It was hard enough accepting his mother’s comfort. Dean sighs and pushes away, ambling towards the living room.

Mary and John are cuddling on the sofa, though she’s not paying attention to the car restoration show that’s playing on the television, too focused on her book. Eileen perches on the arm of the worn-down recliner while Sam’s arm is wrapped around her waist. Dean slips quietly across the room and drops into the other recliner. As much as he loves watching classic vehicles being brought back to their original (or close enough) beauty, Dean can’t seem to focus entirely. Sure, he can appreciate the gleaming cherry-red of the 1970 Mustang, but too much of his attention is back in his office with Emma, desperately trying to piece together all the parts of the puzzle so that he can help her heal.

Sam and Eileen are the first to leave. Dean makes sure to smile at her, hopefully conveying that he’s not mad at her; it seems to work because she grins widely and waves before stepping out onto the porch. Sam hugs their parents first, then turns to his brother. Dean lets himself be wrapped in a tight hug, the embrace saying the words Dean would hate to hear but needs to hear anyway. An hour later, Dean decides to head home as well, his arms loaded down with leftovers.

His house is quiet, echoing with the silence, and he sighs. It’s only going on seven o’clock, but he’s already so tired. He grabs a beer from the fridge, sprawls on the couch in the living room, and turns on the TV, letting the sound of some random sitcom send his brain into a pleasant, unthinking buzz.


	5. 4. castiel

Castiel sighs, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. It’s been a hellish morning. His head is pounding, and he can still taste the blood from his split lip. Having to remove a child from a neglectful home environment is rarely easy – too many times, the parents refuse to let the social workers in the house, or even to leave, and on more than one occasion, Castiel has had curses and death threats spat his way as he led the child from the home – but in the years he’s had this job, he’s never had a father pull a gun on him or a mother punch him square in the face before grabbing up a cast-iron skillet and wielding it as a weapon. Before today, that is. It took five officers to get the Webbers under control so that Castiel could steer Aaron out through the front door. The four-year-old was sobbing the entire time, his parents screaming after them, but Castiel kept a reassuring hand on Aaron’s thin, shaking shoulders as another officer put a carseat in the back of Castiel’s car. The drive to the office had been quiet except for the child’s sniffles. Thankfully, he slept while Castiel made calls to any immediate relatives; Aaron’s aunt arrived a little under two hours later, fuming at how her nephew was being treated by his drug-addicted parents. Castiel made a note on his calendar for an inspection set for three days later, confirmed Ms Webber’s contact information, and watched as yet another child left his office because their parents failed them.

Plastic crinkles by his ear, and Castiel startles, turns in his chair to see Garth holding out a frozen sponge in a Ziploc baggie. Castiel takes it gratefully, hissing at the cold against his bruised mouth. He’s just said a quick yet sincere thank you when his cell phone starts ringing. Garth lopes away with a smile as Castiel slides his thumb across the screen and cuts off _Clair de Lune_.

“Hello?”

_“May I speak to Mr Novak?”_

“Uh, this is he.”

_“Oh, hello. My name is Mr Davies, the principal here at Lawrence Middle School.”_

“Is–is Claire okay?”

_“Hmm? Oh, yes, Claire is fine. But she’s the reason for this phone call. Is it possible for you to come in for a quick meeting? At your earliest convenience, of course.”_

Castiel does a quick run-through of his afternoon schedule. “Yeah, I, um, I can be there in about twenty minutes.”

_“Fantastic. See you then, Mr Novak.”_

The click of Mr Davies hanging up spurns Castiel into action. He hurries to his feet, gathers up his files that still need to be filled out, and shoves them into his messenger bag; Missouri waves him from her office the moment he says “Claire’s principal just called.” He makes the drive to the school in fifteen minutes of quiet panic. The principal said that Claire was fine – Castiel really tries to keep this in mind, but he can’t see any other reason for a call that couldn’t be said over the phone. He starts chewing on his lower lip before a sharp sting and a blossom of blood on his tongue reminds him of why he shouldn’t. He rummages through the middle console for a napkin, blotting at his mouth as he parks in an open space in front of the school. Once inside, he immediately heads for the main office. Relief causes him to pause, his knees almost buckling, when he sees his daughter sitting in a chair. It’s cut short, however, when she turns her head in his direction.

Half of her face is blocked by an ice pack, and there’s blood drying below her nose. Her wide blue eyes fill with tears as she gazes up at him.

“Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

“What happened, Claire?” he asks, brushing a lock of hair from her face.

“Ah, you must be Mr Novak.”

At the clipped accent, Castiel turns to see a man not much older than himself striding from a room toward the back. The man’s face, dotted with stubble along the jaw, is set in a serious expression, and his light eyes betray nothing as he steps forward with one hand extended.

“Yes, I am,” replies Castiel while shaking the proffered hand.

“Of course. If you and Claire could please follow me?” Mr Davies sits behind his desk, waits until the other two are seated before he speaks again. “Thank you for coming in so promptly, Mr Novak. It’s wonderful to see parents that are actually concerned with the lives of their children.”

“Yes, well, Claire will always come first. So what happened?”

“Would you like to explain, Claire? No? Well, then. Mr Novak, I’ve called you in today because Claire got into a physical altercation with another student in the passing period after lunch. Both have refused to give a reason for the fight, but Claire has admitted to throwing the first punch. This school has a zero-tolerance policy, so, bearing in mind Claire’s excellent record, I’m only suspending her for the rest of the week. You may come in at the end of each day to pick up any homework she may have.”

“Okay. I’m really sorry about this, Mr Davies. Claire is usually much better behaved than this.”

Mr Davies smiles. “Yes, I suspect as much, due to the fact that this is her first visit to my office. Now, Claire, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to your father alone, please.”

The teenager nods, shifts the ice pack, and leaves the room. Castiel watches the door close behind his daughter then turns back to face the principal. He sees Mr Davies glance down to Castiel’s busted lip, brows furrowing momentarily before his expression smooths out. But there’s no trace of amusement or congeniality on his face any longer.

“I’ve noticed you have evidence of your own fight, Mr Novak.”

“Hmm?” Castiel touches his lip. “Oh, yes. I’m a, um, social worker, and my job sometimes entails removing children from inhospitable environments. Today was one of those days, and the parents were…particularly unhappy about the situation.”

“So fighting isn’t a regular thing in the household? You never argue with her mother?”

Castiel stiffens. “Her mother is no longer in the picture, so no, I do not.”

“Perhaps… Forgive me for intruding, but perhaps the lack of a maternal figure coupled with her, er, age is causing her to act out. It might be best to have her seen, just in case there are any underlying issues. As I’ve said, Claire has been a model student. This is the first issue we’ve had with her, but I feel it’s prudent to be sure that this won’t be a further problem. I can give you the number of a highly-recommended child psychologist who works closely with the school.”

“If you feel it’s necessary, then by all means, of course.”

“Wonderful.” Mr Davies opens a drawer, pulling out a card, and handing it over. “We hope to see Claire back in school next week. Have a pleasant day, Mr Novak.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel can’t help but feel overwhelmed with guilt, as he walks with Claire out to the car. Has he really failed his daughter so much that she needs therapy? He’s brought back in time to the counselling sessions he endured as a child, where nothing he said seemed to matter, and his parents were told everything. For four long years, he was forced to spend an hour a week in a stuffy office, being told he was there to be ‘fixed’ so that he could regain his place as one of God’s ‘ _pure children_ ’, that he was little more than an abomination until he could renounce any and all attraction to fellow men. All that those hours resulted in were a long struggle with how he viewed himself and a severely strained relationship with his entire family. His parents had remained civil because of Claire, but they couldn’t continue the charade once Castiel signed the divorce papers. Michael and Nick have had little to do with Castiel; even when they were children, the older two were far too busy being groomed to take over the family businesses. Only Gabriel has remained happily in touch with the youngest Novak brother, but that’s just how Gabe’s always been – willing to say “Fuck you!” to anyone who tried to control him.

“Dad?”

Castiel snaps to reality at Claire’s timid voice. “Yes, bumblebee?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes! I really am.”

“Why… Why’d you even get in that fight, Claire?”

“Because he was picking on a girl,” she whispers after a long pause. “I tried just telling him to leave her alone, but he just wouldn’t stop, and Dad, what he was saying was _bad_. She was crying, and he just kept going. So…I punched him.”

Castiel puts the car in park once he’s in the driveway outside their home, but neither of them moves to get out. He stares at the garage door in front of him, his past trying to claw its way into the now. Finally, he sighs, turns to face Claire.

“I’m really, really proud of you for defending that girl. God knows I wish I’d ever had someone do that for me. But you can’t resort to violence to get your point across. Acting so rashly only serves to cause more problems, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Mr Davies wants me to get you in to see a psychologist.”

“I’m not crazy!”

“I know that, Claire. Please don’t yell at me. He just wants reassurances that this isn’t going to be an ongoing thing.”

“And you agree with him? Oh, what am I saying, of _course_ you do. Fine, whatever. Not like I have a choice anyway.”

She throws open the door, slamming it behind her. Castiel groans and scrubs a hand over his face. It never fails to amaze him how quickly Claire can go from one mood to another, especially anger. He’s so worn out, physically and mentally, that he can’t even laugh at the fact that his daughter stormed out of the car only to find herself stuck on the porch until he unlocks the front door.

“Lord help me,” he murmurs to himself before getting out of the car.


	6. 5. dean

Wednesday dawns cold and dreary; the forecast calls for snow later in the day, but the dark clouds overhead threaten flurries sooner. Dean bundles up in a heavy coat as soon as he’s done showering and getting dressed, braces himself for the frigid air, and hurries outside to start his car. While Baby warms, he pours coffee into a large thermos and sorts through the stack of envelopes piling up on the counter. A few are bills, two are junk mail. There’s one from Benny and Andrea, probably school pictures of the girls. He tosses the fliers into the trash, gathers up his things.

Charlie’s Gremlin is already in the lot when Dean parks. He shakes his head, not for the first time wishing she’d get a new car. He understands, probably better than anyone, how attached a person can be to a vehicle, but the damn hunk of junk that Charlie drives has broken down too many times to count, and she’s constantly dumping more and more money into new parts just for something else to go wrong. Dean kicks gently at one of the tires as he passes, worrying at his lower lip at how flat it is.

“Heya, boss,” Charlie chirps cheerfully when Dean steps inside.

“Hey, kiddo. When’s the last time you aired your tires?”

“Less than a week ago.” She cocks her head to the side. “Why?”

“The front passenger one is low.”

Dean winces when the redhead lets out a loud groan and lets her head thump down on the desk. He pats her head sympathetically as he passes. With a sigh, he sets his thermos on his desk and skims over his schedule for the day: Lucas at nine, Cole at eleven, Jesse at one, Krissy at two, and Emma at four. Dean grabs Lucas’s file from the pile on the filing cabinet, sets it aside so it won’t get lost or misplaced, and sets out to sort through the remaining files.

By the time Lucas comes in with his mother, the haphazard stack of folders is no longer threatening to topple over, and the filing cabinets are organised. Dean smiles at Andrea before leading the child into the other room. Lucas immediately goes to the table and gets busy with colouring. Dean lets him; he’s learned the boy’s drawings often tell more than meets the eye, especially since Lucas hasn’t spoken in almost a year. He hears just fine – a hearing test was the first thing a paediatrician ordered when Lucas didn’t utter a single word in over a week – but he’s remained mute since the “accident”.

Dean still remembers reading the local news article about a six-year-old almost drowning in the lake behind his house. His parents, Andrea and Christopher, had been out on a date as a late anniversary celebration, and a teenager from across the way had agreed to babysit the child. Unfortunately, she’d lost focus on the job, instead disappearing into a bedroom after her boyfriend showed up. By the time they finished and realised Lucas was missing, the boy was near death. The girl was charged as an adult for her bad decision that came close to taking an innocent child’s life, and Lucas and his family have been struggling to overcome the trauma ever since.

“You feelin’ okay, Lucas?” Dean asks after about ten minutes of silence; the boy nods without speaking, reaching for another sheet of construction paper. “No talking today?”

Lucas glances at the psychologist. His lips twitch minutely, but he still stays quiet. Dean stifles a grin of his own, scribbles down a note, and opens the Kindle app on his phone. He’s barely two pages in the book he’s reading when his brain registers that the room is completely silent. He looks up to see Lucas has set down his crayons and is now staring at the sunny yellow paper. Dean waits a moment.

“Lucas? Is everything all right?”

Lucas hesitates before his finger starts tapping against the paper.

“Do you want me to look?”

Lucas nods.

“Okay. Can I come closer?”

Another nod. Dean drops his phone into his seat and crosses the room. Scrawled across the paper in thick black lines, the writing blocky, are the words _I am scared_.

“What’s up, kiddo? Why are you scared?” Lucas’s tapping increases in pace, and Dean softens his voice, holding his hands up as he says, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Take your time, buddy.”

Lucas slowly calms. His chest shudders with the shaky, deep breath, and he painstakingly writes out _To talk_.

“You’re scared to talk? Well, that’s understandable. You haven’t talked in a long time, and the reason you stopped is a terrifying and very valid reason. Change is always going to be scary, and no one’s going to force you into talking if you’re not ready. Just know that we’re here for you, whenever you decide to make the change, okay?”

Dean squeezes Lucas’s shoulder gently, reassuringly, and moves back to his chair. The rest of the hour passes silently, but Dean refuses to break it. When his phone starts to vibrate, he dismisses the timer and leads Lucas to the waiting lobby. Charlie gestures for Dean’s attention, and he nods before confirming Lucas’s next appointment and saying goodbye to Andrea and her son.

“What’s up?”

“Phone call. New patient, maybe.”

“Maybe?” He wiggles his fingers, and Charlie passes over the receiver, pressing a button to take the caller off hold. “This is Doctor Winchester.”

_“Oh, uh, hello. I called Doctor Jennings, but he’s on holiday so his receptionist directed me to you.”_

The deep, gravelly voice is not what Dean expected to hear, but he ignores his surprise (and the shiver that attempts to run down his spine). “Okay, what can I help you with?”

_“Well, my daughter’s principal…suggested I get her in to see a psychologist, because, well, she got into a fight at school, and while I think it was for a good reason, he thinks there might be underlying issues, and –”_

“All right, it’s fine. Uh, how old is she?”

_“Thirteen. Does that matter?”_

“Well, normally, my patients age-out at twelve, but… Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I have an open block in my schedule today, so bring her in. If I feel that she should keep up with therapy sessions, I’ll set things up with Doctor Jennings. Would three o’clock work for you?”

_“Yes, three will work fine.”_

“Awesome. I’ll have Charlie take your information, and I’ll see you and your daughter then.”

Dean hands the phone back to Charlie so she can make a record of the man’s pertinent details. He closes his office door on her asking for names but not before he hears “Okay, Mr Novak, and what is your address?” _Mr Novak_. With a shake of his head, he pushes away intrusive thoughts of hearing that voice in the dark of night, willing his libido away. _Not the time or place, Winchester_ , he reminds himself as he turns to the computer to type up the notes from Lucas’s session. A soft chime sounds a moment later, and he refreshes the calendar to see _Claire Novak_ in the 3 pm slot.

Pamela brings lunch a little after noon, deli meat-and-cheese sandwiches made with flaky croissants. Dean devours his first one, not having realised how hungry he was, but takes his time with the second, relishing the smooth buttery flavour of the pastry and the sharpness of the cheddar cheese. Charlie starts talking about her plans for the upcoming weekend with her girlfriend. Dean nods along as she speaks but is all too aware of the jealousy eating away at his insides. He’s been content with flings and one-night stands since the relationship with Cassie, which lasted almost five years; he thought they’d get married, have a family, it was all going so well. Until it wasn’t. It wasn’t really her fault – she wanted more than he could give. She wanted to travel the world, write hard-hitting reports and make a name for herself as a reputable journalist. He doesn’t blame her for having her dreams, or even for chasing them, and he certainly doesn’t regret that relationship. It took him almost two years to get over the pain, and by the time he felt ready to brave dating again, he always managed to find people who weren’t quite as willing as he to settle down.

But now he’s almost thirty-seven and yearning for more.

 

 

Claire Novak turns out to be an average-looking teenager except for her startling blue eyes. The left side of her face is mottled blue and black, making her skin look even paler in comparison. She waves a little when Dean calls her name.

“My dad’s in the car making a phone call,” she explains, having caught Dean glancing around the otherwise empty waiting lobby.

“No problem. C’mon back, kiddo.”

“‘Kiddo’?”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Sorry. Habit. None of my other patients seem to mind.”

“What are they, five?”

“Some.”

She pauses in the doorway, stares around at the sandbox and toy-chests, the bookshelf in the shape of a pirate ship, the wall coated in dry-erase paint and markers in their box, and stuffed animals. Dean gestures her further into the room as he takes a seat in his armchair; Claire plops onto one of the overstuffed bean-bag chairs, a loud sigh escaping her with the impact. Dean starts the timer on his phone, readies his notepad, and watches the teen.

“I don’t need to be in therapy,” she announces nonchalantly as she gazes up at the ceiling. “Mr Davies and my dad are worrying about nothing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m fine.”

“This fight –”

“Was because I was defending another kid.”

“Did you tell your principal this?”

“No.”

Dean stifles a sigh and rubs at his temple. “Why not?”

“Because Mr Davies is cool, ya know, fair and stuff, but he doesn’t act like he really understands the damage bullying does. He says he went to a boarding school so you would think he knows that bullying can lead to suicide. So either he doesn’t understand, or he just doesn’t care and expects us to stick up for ourselves, for us to deal with the problems on our own, but also punishes us for doing exactly that.”

“Not every boarding school is like in the movies, Claire. Maybe the one he went to had a strict policy against bullying, so it never became a problem.” Dean pauses. “Why else would your principal and your father think this is you acting out?”

“I dunno. Probably because my mom’s not around, hasn’t been since I was, like, two.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“You’re so cliche,” she groans before laughing nervously. “Honestly? It doesn’t really bother me. I don’t have any memories of her, and Dad’s been both for as long as I can remember. I never felt like I was missing out on anything, even when kids in my class would talk about their moms. Dad’s always been enough.”

By the time the hour’s up, Dean has come to the conclusion that Claire is surprisingly well-adjusted to having only a single father. He asks her to wait while he types up a letter to her principal, printing it out along with a copy for her father. She leaves with a small grin, and Dean lets himself be glad that at least one patient won’t be coming back.


	7. 6. castiel

“See, Dad, I’m fine.”

Castiel nearly goes cross-eyed as Claire thrusts a folded sheet of paper in his face. He manages to extricate it from her grasp without tearing it; she watches him intently as he reads the letter.

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_It is my professional opinion that Claire Novak is well-adjusted and poses no danger to herself or others. The fight at school was a one-time occurrence._

_Feel free to call or email me if you have any further questions._

_Dr Dean Winchester_  
_Child Psychologist_

Castiel smiles, nodding once, and slides the paper into his messenger bag. “How did it go?”

“It was okay,” Claire responds, shrugging, before she buckles her seat belt. “Nothing mind-blowing. Just talked about the fight and my emotions, and Mom a little bit.”

“You talked about your mom?” asks Castiel; his hand shakes slightly as he tries to turn the key in the ignition.

“Not much, only that she hasn’t been around pretty much my entire life and that I don’t remember her.”

“Do...do you want to?”

“Do I want to what? Remember Mom? Not really. She’s been gone this long. Why fix what ain’t broke, right?”

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

Castiel ignores the fact that he can feel his daughter staring at him as he drives home. He hopes that Claire never gets the urge to know the reason behind her mother’s absence. Though he’s kept the details from Claire with the excuse of protecting her, Castiel is afraid she won’t see it that way, that she’ll be angry, that she’ll resent him for it. It will destroy his soul if he and Claire end up having the same kind of relationship – that is to say, none – that he has with his parents.

Claire disappears into her room upstairs as soon as they arrive back at home. Castiel watches her go with a ball of… _something_ tightening in his chest. She’d always been such a happy kid – quiet, sure, but happy. Now, though… Now Castiel can’t help but worry that he’s managed to screw up along the way. He sighs when loud rock begins blaring from her room; he takes it as yet another piece of evidence that Claire’s not quite as content as she seems. He resists the urge to talk to her, instead scrounging through the fridge for something to make for dinner.

As he dices up potatoes, he thinks about the call he’d taken while Claire was seeing Dr Winchester. The parent had started the conversation off being pleasant enough with inquiries about the requirements to get her child back, and Castiel was happy to provide the answers. Hearing that she had to be and remain drug-free, however, had seemed to flip a switch in her brain, as she suddenly became irate; her anger only grew when Castiel offered to send her contact information for several highly-rated rehab centres if she was having trouble getting clean on her own.

_“I’m not a fucking junkie, I don’t need rehab!”_

Castiel barely managed to suppress his sigh as the woman continued to scream down the line. “Of course, ma’am. I was not calling you a junkie. I was merely suggesting facilities that can help, as I know drugs can prove to be incredibly difficult to quit.”

_“Listen here, you uppity bastard, I’m not some piece of trash who’s too stupid to know when I’m being judged. I love my kid, and I don’t need some holier-than-thou asshole trying to make it seem like I don’t. You don’t know how hard it is to raise a child on your own, especially not one who’s acting out and lying all the damn time. Of course I need a little pot now and then to deal with her shit.”_

“Ma’am, you were found with methamphetamines in your system, along with a large amount of cocaine that you admitted you were planning to sell. It’s _not_ a case of just a little marijuana, and even if it was, the requirements are the same: a safe environment, an acceptable bed, weather-appropriate clothes and food, basic commodities such as electricity, running water, heating and cool, and a drug-free home. I’m sorry if you feel like I’m judging you for your situation, and I assure you I am not, but the requirements are consistent, no matter the reason for the child being taken from the home.”

_“Well, how fucking long?”_

“Pardon?” asked Castiel after a lengthy pause; the question wasn’t necessarily a bad one, but it could have referred to a few different events. “How long… what?”

_“How long do I have to stop smoking until I get my daughter back?”_

“Ma’am…” Castiel dropped his head to the steering wheel and fought against the desire to bash his head against the dashboard. “In order to retain custody of your child, you must continuously pass drug tests with absolutely no amount of any substance in your system. If you fail even one test, your child will be taken from your custody again, and a judge will determine whether you get another chance or if your daughter will go into the foster system.”

The words had barely been out of Castiel’s mouth before the woman was screaming again. He gritted his teeth against the onslaught of verbal abuse; she stopped short of death threats, but very narrowly. The second she took a breath, Castiel immediately tried speaking again.

“Ma’am, I have explained –”

_“Fuck you, and fuck the people you work for. How dare you threaten to keep my daughter away from her mother, especially this close to tax time?”_

“–the re – Ma’am, what exactly does tax time have to do with you regaining custody of your child?”

_“_ I _take care of her, so I damn well better be able to get money back for dealing with her ungrateful ass, shouldn’t I? Now here you are, trying –”_

Castiel finally reached the end of his patience, shouting over the woman’s tirade, “Ma’am, please kindly shut up and _listen_! If you want custody of your daughter, you _will_ follow the requirements as I’ve explained them, and you _will_ refrain from using drugs, at least until she’s eighteen and out of the house. If you cannot follow the rules, we _will_ remove your daughter, no matter what time of year it is, and I cannot promise that you’ll get her back. Due to the content of your language throughout this entire conversation, I am terminating this call. Have a good day.”

He’d hung up and spent the next twenty minutes desperately trying to get his temper under control. He’s usually praised on how well he handles stressful situations, but hearing a parent blatantly disregard their child as a nuisance whose only benefit is bringing in money always makes his blood boil. It’s worse when said parent refuses to accept responsibility or change, instead choosing to make everyone’s lives more difficult and insulting an innocent kid.

His hand starts shaking as he’s cubing a block of cream cheese, trembling with fresh anger to the point he risks slicing off a digit or two, so he sets the knife onto the counter and forces himself to calm down. Once his breathing is under control, he resumes his task.

By the time the potato soup is done, Castiel has finished typing up his case files and sending an email about the mother to Missouri, and Claire has turned off her music. They eat in silence; they’ve been with each other all day, so there’s really nothing new to talk about. She does the dishes before going up to her room once more. Castiel unlocks his cell phone and scrolls through the limited contacts until he finds Gabriel’s number. His brother answers on the third ring.

_“Heya, Cassie. Long time, no speak. What’s up, baby bro?”_

“Hello, Gabriel. How are you?”

_“I’m good, I’m good. Just got back from Hawaii with Kali. Worked on my tan, relaxed, enjoyed the waves, had lots of very enthusiastic sex –”_

“That’s far too much information.” Castiel sighs while Gabriel merely starts laughing on the other end. “I am glad that you and Kali had a good time. How is she, anyway?”

_“She’s good, real good. Her gallery has a new exhibition opening up in New York in a couple of months. You and Claire-Bear should come. I know it would mean the world to Kali.”_

“Gabe –”

_“Yeah, you can’t just take off without warning. Which is why I’m telling you now. Just… think about it, okay?”_

Castiel scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to at least consider it.”

_“Adda brother. So how’re you? How’s Claire? How’s work?”_

Half an hour later, Castiel says goodbye to his brother, promising to call again soon, and heads up the stairs to check on Claire. The thirteen-year-old is sitting cross-legged on her bed, her head cradled in one hand with her elbow resting on her knee; she barely glances up from her book when he knocks gently on her open door.

“Hey, Bumblebee, it’s almost seven. Want to watch a movie?”

“Not tonight.”

“What are you reading?”

“ _To Kill a Mockingbird_.”

“That’s a good book.”

“Yup.”

He shifts his weight onto his other foot, watching as Claire turns the page in her book and continues reading. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

“Yeah.” She finally looks up at her father; her brow furrows, and the corners of her mouth tug downward. “Are you okay? You’re acting really weird.”

“Yeah, I’m–I’m fine. So… no movie?”

Her blue eyes scrutinise him closely before she sighs, shaking her head. “Not tonight, Dad. Sorry.”

Castiel nods, his heart clenching in his chest, and walks away. He can only hope that Dr Winchester is right, that Claire really is as well-adjusted as he claims. Hopefully, Castiel isn’t failing miserably at being a father and screwing up his daughter in the process.


	8. 7. dean

Dean sighs and leans back in his chair. Charlie’s out getting lunch, so the office is empty and quiet. Time keeps slipping away, inching closer and closer to three o'clock. Dean’s been dreading today’s arrival; worried about what this afternoon's session with Emma will bring, he's caught himself losing focus on his tasks. This morning, he had sat in the parking lot for nearly twenty minutes, staring blankly through the windshield, until Pamela braved the cold, darted across the lot, and tapped at his window. Dean doesn't even remember going through his before-work routine or the drive from home to work. He knows what others, especially his father, will say – that he's become too attached to a patient, that he needs to back off or pass her off to another psychologist who can give her the help she needs without their emotions getting involved. But he can't do that. He can't give up on Emma.

Dean scrubs a hand across his face, blows out a breath. Thankfully, he's dragged from his thoughts by a loud knocking on the lobby door. He steps out of his office to see Charlie standing in the corridor outside. She grins brightly and wiggles a fast food bag in his direction. He hurriedly heads to the door and unlocks it, pulling it open. She breezes past him, sets the food on the ledge of the reception desk, and starts digging through the bags.

“Um, don't hate me, but I kinda need you to break into my car,” she announces over her shoulder.

“Lock your keys in it again?”

Charlie stomps her foot. “I swear to God it's haunted! I set my keys down on the seat so I could grab the bags and drink tray, and I forgot to pick them back up until after I'd shut the door, and the doors locked - I didn't even touch the damn things! And don't even say it,” she adds with more force than necessary.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

He's still chuckling as he makes his way to the beat-up vehicle. True to Charlie's word, her keys are sitting on the passenger seat. Dean ducks into his own car, rummaging through the glovebox for his lock-picking set. His mother hadn't been happy when Dean unwrapped the cloth packaging on his thirteenth birthday, but John and Bobby laughed and said every boy needed a set in case he got in a little bit of trouble. Lately, though, the only action Dean's set has seen is when he needs to fish Charlie's keys from inside her locked car.

Task finished, he replaced the lock-picks in Baby and heads back inside. He hands Charlie her keys amidst her cheers (and quite adorable) “happy dance”, plucks up his burger and seasoned fries, and sits with his best friend to eat in comfortable silence. It isn't until he's stuffing the last bite of beefy, cheesy goodness into his mouth that Charlie speaks.

“So what's going through that brain of yours, Winchester?”

“Don't know what you mean.”

She raises a slender red eyebrow at him. “Besides the near half-hour that you sat in your car this morning? You've been very...scatterbrained today. You didn't even seem as stressed after Marv left this morning. You haven't really participated in any conversation I've tried to hold. So, I repeat, what's going on that's got you so not-you?”

“Just worried, that's all.”

Thankfully, Charlie doesn't ask any more questions. She understands, both the confidentiality clause and Dean's feelings; she knows that Dean cares about all of his patients and that Emma is turning out to be an incredibly difficult case for him to deal with. She squeezes his hand gently before standing and gathering up the trash. Dean wipes the table with a disinfecting wipe and goes to his office. Emma's folder is sitting on top of all the others. He stares at the tidy label on the edge of the file, the child's name printed in block letters. He knows, has memorised, every single word in every single session summary; he can try to put the pieces together, but he's honestly afraid to. He knows they eventually, he'll have no choice, that he'll either have to transfer her - with all of her problems - to another psychiatrist once she hits twelve, or he can report this entire thing now. But he doesn't know what he would even report, and asking Jody or Missouri to investigate Emma’s home life without much evidence could backfire terribly. He'd risk, not only the respect of the two women but also the trust he's painstakingly fought to earn from the troubled child.

Dean sighs, a harsh exhalation of breath, as he grabs a sheet of paper and pen; he spends the next twenty minutes making a pro/con list of asking Jody to check in on the Lindstroms, and desperately trying to connect the dots between Emma's behaviour and the very little information she's ever confided in him. By the time Cole comes in at one, Dean’s managed to finish the list, and he's made up his mind to call Jody that night.

Emma sits silently on a beanbag chair. Her skinny fingers pick at the seam of the fabric, and her head is bowed. Dean can't see her face; she hasn't looked at him once in the forty minutes that she's been in the room. The sweater she's wearing is a thick, woollen thing that makes her look smaller than she is, and her baby-blue sneakers light up every time she moves her feet. She sniffles occasionally, but whether it’s from the cold weather or if she’s crying, Dean isn't sure. He bites back the urge to speak, the words just behind his teeth threatening to escape, and forces himself to remain quiet and patient. When Emma finally speaks, her voice is soft, trembling, and her fingers pluck harder at the threads holding the chair together.

“There was a monster in my dream.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It was big and scary, It had lots of scratchy hair like Daddy’s all over. It had big, long, pointy teeth, and it smelled like our trash can when the trash man doesn’t take the trash away.”

“What did this monster do?” asks Dean when she doesn’t say anything further.

“He stared at me with his mouth open wide like he was gonna eat me, but he didn’t move at all, but it scared me. I couldn’t make it go away. I wanted it to go away. Why wouldn’t it go away?”

Her dark eyes flit in his direction, shining with unshed tears, before she resumes staring at the floor. Dean flounders for something to say, anything that can help Emma. He clears his throat quietly and leans forward in his chair.

“I’m sorry, Emma, but I can’t answer your question. I wish I could, but I can’t. Any answer I give could end up being a lie, and I don’t like lying, especially not about important things like this. Bad dreams happen when someone is scared, hurt, or upset. We can’t ever choose to not have them, but we can be prepared when they do. I can send home a book and some papers that can help. Would you be okay with your mom knowing?” Emma nods slowly, and Dean makes a note in her file. “Okay. I’ll give them to your mom when our time is up.”

“Do you ever have bad dreams?”

Dean pauses at her timid inquiry then answers as truthfully as he can without taking the focus off of the child, “Yeah, I do sometimes. Talking to my mom helps a lot to get rid of the scared feelings I have after I have them. Maybe you can try that with _your_ mom?”

Emma shrugs and burrows deeper into her sweater. The timer goes off five minutes later, and Dean walks her back out into the lobby. Mrs Lindstrom thanks him profusely when he hands over the paper and book he’d promised Emma. Dean watches them leave, a tight knot of worry in his chest; he can only hope that Jody or Missouri can save that little girl.


	9. 8. castiel

Castiel keeps an eye on the car ahead of him, the bright red of the brake lights a beacon against a backdrop of navy metal and grey sky. His heater is going full blast, but he still feels like he’s freezing. Work was a dragging monotony of paperwork, for which he’s honestly grateful - less being in the cold - but it’s also left him with the nagging worry that another child is being neglected or abused without hope of help.

He inches his car forward when the line of cars move forward, slows to a stop at the corner. The crossing guard moves to the middle of the crosswalk to allow a group of students to make it to the other side of the street safely. As soon as he can, Castiel turns the corner and resumes waiting. It doesn’t take much longer, thankfully, for him to reach the front of the school; he makes sure the doors are unlocked and watches for Claire. She slides into the back seat only a moment later, cyan-coloured earbuds firmly in her ears. Castiel can hear the thumping bass and screaming guitars clearly over the blasts of warm air coming from the vents. He sighs and presses gently on the accelerator, following the other vehicles out of the half-circle lane.

Only a few minutes from home, the cacophony from the backseat lowers in volume; Castiel turns down the heater in response and waits.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yes, Bumblebee?”

He glances in the rearview mirror in time to see her fidgeting with her earbud cords; she catches his gaze before quickly glancing away. She takes a deep breath.

“What...are signs of abuse?”

Castiel’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Uh, well, that really depends on the type of abuse. I mean, a lot of the warning signs remain the same across the board, but there are still differences.”

“Okay. So what are the signs that are the same?”

“There’s, let’s see… changes in behaviour, like aggression, hostility, or hyperactivity, or changes in school performance, frequent absences, not wanting to go home, uh… depression, anxiety, suicide attempts. I’m sure I’m forgetting a few. Why do you ask?” He pauses. “Do you think a friend of yours is being abused?”

Claire shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ll...I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Claire-Bear…”

“Why’s Uncle Gabe here?”

Castiel glances at the front porch as he turns into the driveway. True to Claire’s word, his older brother is lounging on the porch swing, head tilted back and a duffel bag at his feet. Castiel parks, turns off the engine, and barely has his seatbelt unbuckled before Claire is out of the car and running to greet her uncle. Castiel scrubs a hand across his face and gathers up his messenger bag and Claire’s bookbag. Neither of the other two pay him any attention as he unlocks the front door; he steps aside to let them pass then follows. Finally, Claire seems to run out of questions to ask about Gabriel’s trip to Hawaii and the kinds of people he’s had come through the doors of his bakery-slash-candy shop. She takes her bag from Castiel, presses a kiss to her uncle’s cheek, and rushes up the stairs, shouting “Homework won’t take long, Dad!” over her shoulder as she disappears from view.

Gabriel wanders into the living room, drops his duffel on the floor by the sofa, collapsing to sprawl across the cushions. Castiel sets his own bag on the desk before he turns to his brother.

“What brings you by?”

Gabriel barely lifts his head as he replies, “Kali had to get back to work immediately. Evidently, some hidden collection was discovered late last night, so she had to go authenticate it, so I figured why not come visit my favourite baby brother.”

“I’m your _only_ younger brother,” Castiel retorts after a pregnant pause.

“Doesn’t negate the fact that you’re my favourite, Cassie. God, have you done _any_ sort of updating around here in the last hundred years?”

“Yes, I got new curtains,” quips Castiel drily, nearly laughing aloud when his brother’s head pops up and Gabriel examines the very much curtainless windows.

“I hate you, Cassie, I really do.”

“Of course you do, Gabriel. How long are you planning on staying?”

“Wow. Only been here five minutes, and you’re already trying to kick me out? Dick.”

Castiel doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, he heads to the kitchen to pull out the pork chops that have been thawing in the fridge all day; he gets to work gathering seasonings and breadcrumbs. Gabriel silently pulls vegetables from the freezer and a bag of potatoes from the “pantry”, a cubby under the island-counters. They work together quietly, in perfect sync, a seamless dance leftover from the stolen hours in an empty house, while Michael and Nick were with their parents learning the secrets of the business. Their father never trusted Gabriel to behave in public, and Mother always claimed Castiel was still too young, too delicate, but he’d known the real reason, even back then: She didn’t want to run the risk of Castiel saying the wrong words or doing the wrong thing, and their “friends” finding out he was in therapy and why. So Castiel and Gabriel had cooked and baked and acted like actual teenagers instead of mindless robots doing only what they were programmed to do.

Dinner is a raucous affair, with Gabriel regaling them with stories of his travels, the clientele he encounters, and the hijinks he’s pulled since he and Kali moved from New York to California three years ago. Castiel laughs at the appropriate times but doesn’t contribute much to the conversation; Claire, on the other hand, keeps asking question after question, milking her uncle’s attention for all its worth. The trio ends up sitting at the dining table for two hours, laughing and talking. The food’s long grown cold by the time they gather up the dirty dishes and put away the leftovers. Claire disappears upstairs to take a quick shower, while the men make their way to the living room. They’ve just sat down, and Castiel has turned the lamp on, when Gabriel coughs quietly.

“Michael called.”

Castiel startles, dropping the television remote to the floor. He ignores it in favour of staring at Gabriel. “What? When? Why?”

“Called me this morning before my flight. He said he wanted to catch up and, what was it?, oh yeah, apologise for his ‘past behaviour’.”

“And what behaviour would that be, exactly? The Hell he and Nick put us through, all the times they made sure we knew we were below them? Or the way he decided, made the choice, to turn his back on you just because you refused to join the family business or to marry Faith because you’d met Kali?”

Gabriel sighs, lifting his feet to rest them on the ottoman. “He didn’t specify.” He shrugs. “To be honest, I didn’t really listen. Too busy trying to finish up at the shop and get to the airport. Besides, I’m not really bothered by how they treated me. I was, and still am, used to being the family fuck-up. I even told Michael as much.”

“What was his response?”

“Mostly he was confused then pissed because I hadn’t told him I forgave him. He got angrier when I told him I’d only forgive him if he honestly, genuinely, _sincerely_ felt remorse for what they’d done to you and Claire.”

“Gabriel -”

“ _No_ , Castiel. You may not think it’s all that important in the grand scheme of things, but it is. You can’t deny how much easier life would’ve been if you’d had an honest-to-God support system to help with Claire or bills when you were juggling work with school and could barely make ends meet. But they were too caught up in how Amelia’s actions could affect them to realise just how much you were struggling.”

Castiel scoffs lightly, avoids Gabriel’s intense gaze. “It wasn’t that bad. I had it handled.”

“The only reason you ‘had it handled’ was because of Kali and me.”

“What?” he whispers after a strained moment of silence, and Gabriel exhales heavily.

“I saw the notices once, a few months after, and I realised how far behind you were. So I told Kali we needed to do something, and, well, we did. Every month we’d pay a little towards the mortgage or electric or gas, just enough that even if you couldn’t come up with the full amount, it wouldn’t matter, because the due balance wasn’t some huge number.”

“Why did you never tell me?"

“Because you were dealing with the backlash of Amelia and trying to be a single dad with a full-time job and full-time schooling. I didn’t want you to feel like a failure. I… I was so fucking proud of you for stepping up and carrying all this weight on your shoulders without asking for a single handout. I was so proud, Cassie. I still am.”

Castiel closes his eyes against the sudden stinging, pressing the heels of his palms tightly to his eyelids, and breathes in unsteadily. While he and Gabriel have always been closer to each other than their brothers, neither of them have ever had a conversation like this before. Even as kids, Gabriel would lean on comedy to make Castiel feel better, no matter the cause of the younger’s tears. Castiel has come to rely on the snark, sass, and sarcasm that’s been a constant in his life for almost forty years. To hear Gabriel speaking so candidly and admitting that he’s proud of Castiel is a little overwhelming.

“I’m proud of you, too, Daddy.”

Castiel’s head snaps up, and he blinks away the dark spots in his vision to see Claire standing in the doorway to the living room. Her wet hair is pulled back in a loose braid, and the sky-blue pyjamas dotted with yellow cartoonish bumblebees makes him start to tear up again. He remembers vividly the way Claire complained about getting such “childish” pyjamas for Christmas, but they’ve turned out to be her favourite pair to wear. He holds open his arms; Claire comes willingly, settling on his knees to allow him to embrace her tightly.

“I’m so very proud of you, Bumblebee, and I’m incredibly lucky that you’re my daughter.”

Claire moves to the sofa moments later, sprawls across the cushions, and starts tapping at the screen of her phone that she’s pulled out of seemingly nowhere. Castiel wipes his eyes, ridding them of any leftover unshed tears, and watches his daughter and brother in silence. Gabriel stares at the ceiling with an unusually serious expression on his face; Castiel is still reeling from the bomb of information that was dropped on him. He can only wonder how he will ever be able to repay Gabriel and Kali back for their kindness and generosity. His musings are suddenly cut short by Gabriel slapping his hands to his knees.

“Dude, when are you gonna find someone instead of being all Loner McLonerson?”

Castiel gapes momentarily before retorting, “This coming from the guy who’s been procrastinating to his girlfriend, his _live-in partner_ , for over a decade? Yeah, I don’t think you have the right to meddle in _that_ particular business of mine.”

Gabriel’s only response is to laugh and reach for the television remote.


	10. 9. dean

Ellen calls out a “Hey, boys” as Dean and Sam step into the Roadhouse. The jukebox against the far wall is playing a Lynyrd Skynyrd song, the words barely audible over the drone of multiple conversations and pool balls clattering; Daniel Wilkins, finally back in town after months on the road being a long-distance trucker, raises his shot of whisky in greeting before turning back to the bar. Sam goes to find a table while Dean grabs the drinks. He has to wait a minute or two since Ellen and Jo are both busy pouring beers and delivering food to the other patrons. Ellen steps behind the bar, wiping her hands on a towel that she slings over her shoulder, and reaches down to pull out two cold bottles of beer. She sets them down in front of Dean with a small smile.

“How ya doin’, kid?”

Dean shrugs, sighs. “I’m doin’. Been a long week already.”

“Just think, tomorrow’s Friday, and you’ll have two days to kick back and relax.”

“Yeah, Friday,” scoffs Dean; his chest feels suddenly tight, but he ignores it - and the confused, worried look Ellen shoots him as she readies a shot for a customer at the end of the bar. Dean picks up the beers and turns to find Sam. “Thanks, Ellen.”

“Dean.”

He glances at her over his shoulder. Her dark eyes examine him closely from under furrowed brows, and she leans forward.

“You know I’m here for you, no matter what. All you gotta do is ask.”

“Thanks.”

Sam is fiddling with his phone by the time Dean sits down across from him in a booth furthest from the jukebox. Sam takes his beer with a smile, shoving his phone into his pocket; the grin on his face slides off quickly when he takes a long look at his brother’s face.

“Dude, what’s up?”

“Hmm?”

“Did Ellen say something to piss in your Wheaties or something?”

“No.”

“Then… why do you suddenly look like someone stole your car?”

“I’m fine, Sam.”

“Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes and takes a deep swallow of his beer. “I’m _fine_. Really.”

“Is it a patient?” Sam holds his hands up in surrender at Dean’s glare. “Just asking. Seriously, I’m worried about you. you’ve been really withdrawn lately, especially when anyone mentions your work. Eileen was certain that you hated her after that dinner with Mom and Dad because one minute, you’re fine, she asks what you do for a living, and you completely shut down. If you need to talk, you know you can always talk to me, right?”

“Yeah, I know, but like I said, I’m fine. I don’t need to talk, and will you please just drop it?”

“Okay, okay, just thought I’d make sure.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, drinking and people-watching. Sam breaks first and launches into a conversation about Tuesday when he and Eileen made a trip to IKEA; he’s in the middle of telling Dean about how he lost track of his girlfriend and they both spent nearly an hour looking for each other when Jo stops by the table.

“Why didn’t you just use your phones and text each other, you idiot?”

Sam pauses, staring at Jo, before he admits sheepishly, “We didn’t think about that.”

Dean laughs in spite of his mood, feels a chunk of the melancholy break away from the knot beneath his ribs. He orders his usual burger and another beer, ignoring the shocked smile on his brother’s face. There’s a wait for their food, but now that the dark cloud has been removed from over his head, Dean doesn’t mind. He and Sam talk freely now, though Sam is careful to keep the conversation away from work.

By the time they leave, well-fed and talked-out, Dean’s almost forgotten what tomorrow will bring. Sam hugs him quickly, tightly, before looking off to Eileen’s idling Camaro. She waves at Dean's from behind the steering wheel; he raises a hand in return, gets in his own car, and starts the engine. Led Zeppelin starts playing immediately as he reverses from his parking spot and points his wheels toward home.

The next day is even worse than Dean feared. First, the pipes froze because of the below-freezing temperatures, and a car had slid off the road due to black ice and hit a power transformer, knocking out the power to the small neighbourhood and surrounding areas, so Dean had woken up unable to shake the cold that settled in his bones and the ability to see his breath. He shivered violently the entire time he changed into a pair of dark jeans, a grey long-sleeved Henley, and a pair of heavy socks; after throwing on a thick flannel and his leather jacket, he shoved his feet into his boots, hurried out to his car, and tried to start her up only for the engine to stall. Ten minutes later, he was finally on his way to work. A last-minute decision had him pulling into a Starbucks drive-thru; he only managed to get three sips of the ー he thinks it was a latte, before some idiot in a shiny BMW cut him off by peeling out of a gas station parking lot and Dean had had to slam on his brakes and swerve to avoid a collision. That only served to cause his coffee to spill all over his lap and the truck behind him to hit his back bumper. The woman in the Ford pickup agreed to not go through insurance to fix the relatively minor cosmetic damage to the front of her truck, which Dean recommended she go to Singer and Winchester Auto to fix. He pulled into a lot for a nearby grocery store, checked out the tail end of Baby, and texted Sam to meet him at the office with a clean outfit.

The appointments during the day have been less stressful than his commute; unfortunately, this means that time has flown since he’s been busy and still frazzled, and now, he has less than half an hour before Emma arrives. He pokes his head out of his office, leaning his temple against the doorframe. The metal is cool, refreshing, against his skin.

“Hey, Charlie?”

“Yeah?” she calls back without looking up from her book.

“You wanna go get me a coffee or something? I feel like I’m dragging right now.”

“I don’t really think caffeine is a good idea with your nerves still being shot from this morning.”

He groans at her logic. “You’re supposed to love me.”

“I do, which is why I care about your health and am refusing to give you a stimulant when you’re already stressed.”

“Fine, but if I fall asleep, I’m blaming you.”

“Okay with me,” she laughs, and Dean retreats into his office again.

Once he has Emma’s file gathered up and sitting on the chair in the session room, he starts reading on his Kindle app to kill time. His hope for a somewhat calm end to the day is brutally destroyed not even fifteen minutes after Emma arrives: She’s defiant and rude, sullen, and vicious with the toys. When Dean asks her calmly to not bang the Hot Wheels on the table or walls, she immediately throws them, one after another, in his direction. Three hit him directly in the face while the other five fall harmlessly to the floor. He tries to explain - again - why her behaviour is unacceptable, only to be met with a piercing, screaming chant of “Shut up shut up shut up shut!” She eventually calms, or at least quiets down, when Dean refuses to react. He watches her closely as she approaches, and, for a moment, he thinks she’s just scrutinising him. That is until she reaches out, lightning fast, and slaps him across the face with as much force as her eight-year-old body can muster. Instinctively, and very much against his better judgment, his hand comes up to wrap firmly around her wrist to prevent her from smacking him again. Dean is startled by the way she unexpectedly collapses to the floor and begins to tug her arm from his grip.

“No!” she shrieks, her free arm coming up to cover her reddening face; tears start streaming down her cheeks, and her mouth forms words with no sound. Her voice is ear-splitting when it comes again. “No, don’t touch me! Get off! Don’t, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry!”

Dean has already released her hand, had the instant she first screamed, but it doesn’t seem to register in her mind. He backs away, crouching once there are a few feet between them, and waits until her words start to trail off due to her crying her so hard.

“Emma, honey, _Emma_ , I let you go. I promise I’m not touching you anymore. C’mon, deep breath in for me, okay? Deep breath and hold, exhale and hold. Yeah, sweetheart, just like that. Keep going, you’ve got this. Do you want a pillow to hold, to help you?”

She shakes her head rapidly, reaching out the hand not over her face. Her fingers tremble as he stares at them.

“You… You want my hand? Okay, I can do that. My hand is out toward you now, kiddo. You just gotta reach just a little further. Yes, right like that. Okay, squeeze when you breathe in, and stop squeezing when you breathe out. Can you do that?”

Two minutes later, Emma’s breathing is controlled, and she’s lying face-up on the floor. Her cheeks are ruddy and wet with the tears still slipping from her swollen eyes. Snot covers the area between her nose and upper lip; Dean manages to grab the tissues without letting go of her hand. She lets him wipe her face, turning her head toward him but otherwise not moving. He sighs and leans heavily against his chair, trying to wrap his mind around the last half-hour. Her grip on his fingers loosens; he glances at her and realises she’s now asleep. He debates waking her up but ultimately decides not to. His head drops back onto the cushion, and he closes his eyes against his own tears.

_What the fuck?_ he thinks, scrubbing a hand along his jaw.

The timer goes off at the end of the session, and he nudges Emma’s arm a few times until her eyes open. She rushes to her feet, apologies spilling from her lips the entire time. He reassures her that it’s okay but she needs to hurry up and go out to the waiting room to meet with her mom. He stops in the doorway when he sees a hulking figure standing by the reception desk instead of the petite brunette woman who usually shows up. The man turns to face Dean and Emma; a heavy, dark eyebrow raises, and he lumbers toward them.

“C’mon, kid, get movin’. I got things to do.”

Emma stays rooted in place even as she leans against Dean’s leg. “Where’s Mommy?”

“She ain’t here, is she? Now let’s go.”

“Emma,” Dean interrupts, crouching to the child’s eye level. “Do you know this man?”

“I’m her -”

“Sir, I’m _not_ talking to _you_ , so please let her speak.”

“It’s my daddy,” she whispers; her eyes are widened slightly, and she’s breathing rapidly, never lifting her gaze from the floor.

“Now that it’s settled, do you mind if I take _my_ daughter home with me now?”

Dean hesitates but knows he legally cannot withhold Emma from her parent, so he nods reluctantly. The other man wraps a large hand around his daughter’s shoulder. Dean avoids looking away from Emma’s terrified face, though he can’t help but notice the thick, coarse, black hair covering the man’s arm from wrist to shoulder. Emma starts crying silently as she’s steered forcefully toward the door. Dean watches them leave through the windows; his chest aches, his throat is tight, and he blinks hard, fast, against the stinging in his eyes. A slender hand slips into his, and Charlie rests her head on his shoulder.

As soon as the truck disappears from the parking lot, Dean pulls away from his best friend and enters his office. He closes the door behind him at the same time a choked sob escapes him. He gives himself five minutes, just five minutes to feel the guilt and the hopelessness of the entire situation before he forces himself to take a deep breath, wipe his cheeks, and pick up his cell phone.

_“Hey, Dean, what’s up?”_

“Hey, Jody, can you come by the office? I think we need to talk.”


	11. 10. castiel

The rhythmic thrum of the washing machine echoes through the otherwise quiet house. Claire is over at Alex’s, working on a school project, and Castiel is thankful for the lack of loud rock music that usually blares from behind Claire’s closed bedroom door. He’s had the entire morning to catch up on a few household chores that have been slightly neglected as of late; the refrigerator is emptied of leftovers older than four days, scrubbed down, and reorganised, and the countertops were cleaned thoroughly, even under the appliances. He’s also straightened up the cabinets and dumped the crumbs out of the toaster.

Fortunately, sweeping and mopping the hardwood floors takes up thirty minutes of his time, so when he checks the time, there’s only an hour left until Claire is due home. He trusts Alex’s parents ー after all, he’s the one who placed her with them six years ago ー and he knows Alex and Claire are both wonderful kids, but the silence of a large empty house is only great for so long. Then it just becomes lonely. He almost wishes Gabriel hadn’t left after breakfast.

The washing machine lets out a harsh buzzing noise just as Castiel finishes wiping the Windex off of the living room windows. He transfers the wet clothes to the dryer, throws in a fabric softener sheet, and twists the knob to start it up. There’s a full minute of silence, and he sighs, thinking of the cost to replace it; thankfully, the machine kicks on with a grumble and soft whine, and the tub starts rotating. He returns to cleaning the windows.

The neighbourhood beyond the glass is quiet; the kids are all indoors, away from the bitter cold. Miss Martin sits in front of her own living room window across the street, reading. She waves cheerily at Castiel when she looks up from the pages in her book. He waves back before turning away. He debates whether he should call Meg or Gabriel, but immediately dismisses the idea: Meg is most likely at work, and his brother probably wants a break right now. The visit hadn’t been any different than usual, aside from the talk about Michael and how Kali and Gabriel paid the bills while Castiel found his footing as a newly-single father, but every time Gabriel visits, it’s always a boisterous time, full of laughs and a flurry of activity, even if all they plan to do is sit on the couch watching television. It always starts out with lounging around, then it turns into baking some kind of dessert or whipping up snacks out of whatever can be found in the pantry which usually ends up with a trip to the grocery store to replenish the stockpile of food.

Castiel has caught himself a few times just today wishing things were different, that Gabriel didn’t live so far away, that there was someone besides Meg in this town who gave a damn about him and Claire. Thankfully, these feelings don’t come often. Meg Masters has been an amazing friend to him since they met six years ago. She’d been one of the nurses watching over a child that Castiel was trying to find a home for; she’s always been too tough to read, hard to handle, but never once has she allowed Castiel to doubt her loyalty. He has yet to have reason to do so. She hides her warm, caring heart behind thick walls and a hellish spitfire facade, but Castiel knows her tender side even if no one else does.

By the time Claire comes home, the clock reads 4:25 pm, and the house is spotless and smells like rainshower air freshener and garlic-and-herb pork roast. Castiel asks her to please put away the clean laundry on her bed while he steams vegetables for dinner.

“No broccoli,” she states over her shoulder as she moves to obey.

“Green beans and carrots it is, then.”

She chatters nonstop throughout dinner about the project she and Alex are working on ー a large poster-board collage and a diorama over Edgar Allan Poe’s life and death. Castiel smiles as she goes on and on; he’s proud of her love of learning, and he’s tried so hard over the last thirteen years to keep that love alive and flourishing. He spent so much of his own childhood pushed and forced to maintain the highest grades possible, resulting in hours spent at the table after school doing homework for the advanced classes he hadn’t been allowed to have a choice in. He never had friends ー _real_ friends ー of his own. Sure, there were a few kids he sat with at lunch, but nobody ever invited him over, not that he would have been given permission to go (they weren’t the “right kind”), and he never asked to have someone visit him. So he’s done his best to make sure Claire has more freedom in her life. He never wants to make her resent him like he did, and still does, his parents.

His cell phone rings shrilly from its position on the counter, the ringtone he set for any calls from work interrupting Claire’s story about a prank that some kid in her Social Studies class pulled. She sighs, slumping against the back of her chair, and begins to eat her vegetables in silence; Castiel apologises regretfully, entertaining a split-second daydream of what it would be like to have a regular 9-5 job with no spillover into his personal life, but answers the call. Missouri’s usually warm voice is quiet, full of sadness, as she requests that he meet her at the hospital. He agrees, hangs up, and calls Meg. Her voicemail picks up, instructs him to “leave a message or don’t, I don’t really give a damn.” His thumb hits the End button, and he swears under his breath even as he dials Garth’s number. Bess answers and immediately assures him that she and Garth will be right over.

“What are the rules?” he asks Claire as he pulls on his shoes, and Claire rolls her eyes.

“Stay away from the windows and doors. Don’t unlock or open the door for strangers. Don’t answer the phone unless it’s you, Aunt Meg, Missouri, or Garth. Be in bed with teeth brushed by nine, and lights out at nine-thirty.”

“Exactly.” He kisses her forehead softly. “I’m sorry about this, bumblebee. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Send me a text message when Garth and Bess arrive.”

The drive to the hospital is quiet and seems to drag on for eternity. Finally, Castiel pulls into a parking space, turns off the engine, and heads inside to the emergency department. Missouri stands at the front desk, her head down as she writes in a notebook; without looking up at him, she puts her pen away and turns toward the double-doors leading out of the waiting room. Castiel follows silently, the sterile scent of antiseptic strong in the air. Patients and cough and mumble behind the doors and curtains. A baby is crying loudly down the hall, and someone else groans, a low desperate sound, closer to where Castiel is now. His shoes scuff and squeak softly on the linoleum floor. Missouri comes to a stop, taps on a door lightly with her knuckles, and they wait. The curtain beyond the glass shifts, and Castiel is pleasantly surprised to see Meg emerging from the room. She barely manages the slight twist of her lips as she attempts to smile in greeting.

“Hey, Clarence.”

A slight woman with short brunette hair steps into the hall behind Meg; the sheriff’s badge on answers the questions of who she is and why she’s here. “Missouri, thank you for coming so quickly.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” sighs Missouri. “Sheriff, this is Castiel Novak, one of my best employees. Castiel, Sheriff Jody Mills.”

Castiel absentmindedly shakes the woman’s hand; he’s trying to ignore the sickening worry currently making its home in his gut. Thankfully, Meg doesn’t waste time ー she just launches into the basics of why they’re all there: The child’s mother brought her in due to bruising on her right arm and down her back, and the fact that the child ー Emma, according to the medical chart ー has been screaming from pain since around noon. Missouri gestures Castiel toward the door, and he steps inside the room, feeling Meg’s fingers brushing softly across his bicep as he passes.

A slender, middle-aged woman glances up from the chair beside the bed. Her eyes are dark with fear and concern; her hand doesn’t move from where she’s holding tightly to her daughter’s. Her free fingers brush a brunette lock of hair from her face. Castiel gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, though she doesn’t return it. He pulls the wheeled stool away from the desk, sits, and readies his notepad.

“Mrs Lindstrom, correct? And this must be Emma.”

The little girl’s eyes open at the sound of her name, and she stares at him distrustfully for a moment before she turns her face away. Her mother sighs and nods.

“Yeah, this is Emma.What can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Novak. I’m with Child Protective Services. Ma’am, do you mind if I speak to Emma alone? It’ll only be a for a couple of minutes, I assure you.”

The woman hesitates, a second of reluctance, but she nods once more and rises to her feet. After pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, she exits the room. Emma steadfastly keeps her gaze away from Castiel. He doesn’t take it personally; far too many times he’s been in this position, and it’s a rare occurrence that either parent or child is happy to see him. He takes a deep breath, shifts to get more comfortable.

“Hi, Emma. My name is Castiel. I’m just here to ask you a few questions, okay?”

Emma shrugs.  
“Do you know why your mom brought you in?”

“Because my tummy hurt really bad, and Da ー I got bruises.”

“Yes, exactly. Do you want to tell me where your bruises came from?”

“No. I don’t know.”

Castiel jots down a quick note. “You don’t know if you want to tell me?”

“I don’t know where they came from,” she says after a pause.

Castiel watches her face for any clues. Her brows are furrowed over eyes shut tight; her teeth worry at her lower lip, and she trembles ever so slightly. She pulls her knees to her chest, her hands clasped together in the space between her legs and torso. Beneath the blankets, her feet move around restlessly. He writes his observation in his notepad and suppresses a sigh.

“Emma? If you need to say something, you can. There is nothing here that is going to hurt you. You’re safe, I promise.”

Emma doesn’t reply any more, no matter the question he asks. Castiel gives up after five minutes; he says goodbye to the child and reassures her that her mother will be in shortly. Once he rejoins the women in the hall, the group moves to an empty staffroom. Meg passes out bottles of water to everyone then takes a seat at the table. Missouri turns in her chair to face Castiel. He takes the hint and starts to speak.

“Based on my observations, Emma is scared of something. She refused to tell me where her bruises came from, like she was afraid of the repercussions of talking about it. I’m not an expert in child psychology, but this happens a lot in abuse victims.”

“She, uh, she sees someone three times a week,” Mrs Lindstrom supplies. “I’m sure he’ll share his findings with you.”

“Do you have any information on him?”

“Yeah, it’s Doctor Winchester. I have his card here somewhere.”

Castiel manages to prevent the knee-jerk reaction from happening at hearing the name of the man that Claire had seen. Thankfully, only Meg notices the tiny flinch but doesn’t say anything, so he focuses on the task at hand. “Okay. Well, I’ll be stopping by his office this week and talking with him. If you could sign a waiver that states you are aware of, understand, and accept what we’ll be doing, we can leave you alone with your daughter as she recovers.”

Missouri produces from her oversized purse the aforementioned paper and a pen, sliding both of them across the table until they rest in front of Emma’s mother. She takes the time to read the form carefully before signing her name neatly and printing the date at the bottom. Sheriff Mills sign next on the first Witness line, and Meg’s messy scrawl of a signature takes up the second. Castiel places the paper in the pages of his legal pad.

“We’ll be in touch, ma’am, but please be aware that until the investigation is complete, there will be home visits, both planned and not, and there is a possibility that you’ll have to take certain classes based on the findings.”

“Of course. Thank you, Mr Novak.”

Missouri leaves first; Castiel stands by the nurses’ centre desk until Meg has finished talking to the sheriff. When she emerges from the conference room, she has to take a deep breath before she can speak, and even then, her voice is shaky.

“Key still in the same place?”

“Yes. What time?”

“Six, hopefully.” She sighs and scrubs a hand over her face. “Drive safe, Clarence.”

The living room light is on when Castiel pulls into the driveway. He sits in his car, staring blankly out the windshield. It’s been months since he’s had to make a trip to the hospital for a child; his cases lately have been files that come across his desk from Missouri or coworkers who have too many open cases of their own. So seeing the desperation of a mother concerned for her child amidst the plain white walls and sterile environment of a hospital emergency room… It causes an ache deep in his chest, one that he can’t imagine being rid of any time soon.


	12. 11. dean

The weekend passes quickly enough. Dean spent Saturday at the auto shop that John and Bobby run, using the spare bay out back to do some tune-ups to Baby, listening to the two older men bickering like only decades-long friends can. Once his car’s maintenance was finished, he’d gone to Charlie’s apartment for movies and a few rounds of Magic with her and a couple of her friends; none of them, minus Charlie, were the type of people he’d ever have willingly chosen to hang out with, but they all turned out to be surprisingly cool. Nerdy, but cool.

Sam brought Eileen to family dinner on Sunday, which made Mary happy. The women have gotten along since the first time Eileen ever came over; Sam, thankfully, didn’t bring up what happened the other night at the Roadhouse, though Dean was worried he might. It would have been with the best of intentions, but Mary would’ve fussed and worried, and John would only have told Dean to find a way to stop being so attached or to pass Emma off. The dinner passed with no topics so serious, and Dean had gone home laden with leftovers but not weighted down with a heavy heart.

Monday saw him closing the office early due to the sky letting loose, and an uncharacteristic amount of snowfall made driving a major risk. He’d called his patients before he left, in case any of them needed to talk even though they’d not be coming into the office that day. Mrs Lindstrom never answered though Dean tried four times. He spent the rest of the day struggling to ignore the tight, cold knot of fear in his chest. He somehow managed to hide it from his father when he pulled into the parking lot to give Dean a ride home.

The roads were ploughed sometime during the night, and though the last of the freezing temperatures still have a hold on the city, Tuesday dawns clear and bright. The sun’s rays are blinding against the snow, sending dizzying flares of light into the morning air. Dean showers quickly and dresses in layers appropriate for the weather. He’s just finished pouring coffee into a second thermos when his phone chimes, vibrating across the countertop.

**From: Bitch** _I’m outside_

**To: Bitch** _K_

True to Sam’s word, he’s sitting in the driveway, car idling. He puts his phone down when Dean slides into the passenger seat, takes the thermos from his brother. The ride to Dean’s office is quiet and relaxing, even with the pop crap playing softly in the background. Sam parks in the space next to the Impala and turns to face Dean.

“I know you said not to ask again, but, well, when have you ever known me to listen to you? Seriously, though, are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“Really? Because Mom told me that Dad said you were really quiet yesterday when he picked you up and that you kept staring at your phone the entire time.”

Okay, so maybe Dean hadn’t hidden it as well as he thought he had. He sighs, cursing inwardly, and shrugs. “Yeah, I’m okay. Promise. There’s really nothing to talk about.”

Sam relents after a moment; he nods and claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean forces a smile and gets out of the car. As soon as he reaches the front door to the building, Sam reverses out of the parking space and drives away, honking once in farewell.

Krissy has just left at eleven when Mrs Lindstrom enters the office. Charlie starts to leave to give the mother and Dean privacy to talk, but Mrs Lindstrom assures the receptionist that it isn’t necessary. She hands Dean a sheet of paper. He glances down to see it’s a form.

_To Whom It May Concern,_   
_I, Elizabeth Annemarie Lindstrom, act as legal guardian and proxy to Emma Louise Lindstrom, and hereby give Doctor Dean Winchester permission to release Emma’s file to authorities if requested._

“What’s this?” he asks, but he has a feeling he already knows.

“Emma… I had to take Emma to the hospital on Saturday. CPS was called because she had suspicious bruising. The man said he’d be by this week to talk to you, and I want to prove that I’m trying to protect my daughter by figuring out what’s happened to her. This is me telling you to give whatever files and information about my daughter that he may ask for.”

Dean nods once. “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can to help, you know that.”

“Thank you, Doctor Winchester.” She sighs, sniffles, but the tears don’t spill over. “You’ve been a godsend to our family. Have a great day, both of you, and hopefully, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dean watches her go, dread filling him. Emma had been in the hospital? Was it because he let her go with her father? Could he have prevented her injuries? He sighs heavily and heads into his office, shutting the door behind him. His heart aches as he sits at his desk and leans back in his chair. Charlie knocks gently on the locked door, but he ignores her. Dean knows that none of this is her fault, that she has no control over the situation, but he can't handle seeing her sympathetic expression or listen to any comforting words at the moment. He should have refused to allow Emma to leave with her father, should have made up an excuse to prevent him taking her.

It's both a good and bad thing that there are no patients scheduled until two o'clock. Dean is well aware of the fact that he's not in the right frame of mind to be an effective psychologist right now, but having so many hours of free time leaves him with nothing to distract him from his guilt-ridden thoughts. Noon brings the usually-enticing aromas of fresh burgers and fries, but he stays holed up in his office, having lost his appetite long ago.

With a sigh, Dean forces his thoughts away from Emma. He only has an hour to get his emotions back to a baseline level, and thinking about the child is doing him no favours. He tries to focus on his plans for this weekend, anything he needs to get done, but he soon finds himself poring over Anna’s file, yet another wave of guilt threatening to overwhelm and crush him under its weight.

Anna Milton is a preteen who was a patient of his the previous year. She’d been referred to him by both Missouri and Pam after she landed in the free clinic with her arm broken in two places and three fractured ribs; Dean had come to the conclusion that her behaviour, the avoiding answering questions and hunching in on herself under scrutiny, was consistent with the aftermath of abuse and told Jody and Missouri. As soon as the investigation into Anna’s home life ended, the father stormed into the office and announced, rather loudly and in front of other patients and parents, that he was pulling Anna from therapy because “Our daughter is still fucked up, and you’re not fixing anything with this wishy-washy, coddling, hippie bullshit!” Dean had been so tempted to tell Mr Milton that Anna would start getting better if he’d stopped beating her, but it would have done far more harm than good. One look at the man’s round face, red with anger, and pale eyes widened in his rage, and the disinterested, mousy woman next to him was all it took for Dean to know he would get nowhere with them. So he’d unhappily accepted the news, though everything in him was screaming for him to fight, and watched the Miltons exit the building. He’d made sure to immediately call Jody about what happened, and she promised to keep checking on Anna.

Dean has spent the six months since then worrying and asking for information, but a month ago, Missouri had stopped by his house to tell him she’d had to close the investigation. There were no new injuries reported, no calls from concerned neighbours…essentially no evidence to back the claim that Anna was in any danger. Her parents had taken the required parenting classes, and that, coupled with the lack of reports, was enough for the state to force Missouri to close the case. Dean spent most of that night too drunk to see straight ー or to hunt down Anna’s parents and kick their asses for ever hurting that little girl.

He’s not sure how, but he gets through the rest of the day without losing it completely. Charlie leaves first, though she lingers by the reception desk for a few minutes as if she wants to say something. Ultimately, she only says a quick goodbye before leaving Dean alone with his thoughts. He locks up the office about ten minutes after she’s gone and sits in his car in the parking lot until he’s decided his next course of action.

Mary comes out of the kitchen when Dean steps inside his parents’ house twenty minutes later. She doesn’t get the chance to ask him what’s wrong before he’s wrapping his arms around her shoulders tightly. Everything is suffocating him from the inside, and he can’t fight the tears any longer. His mom holds him as he allows himself to cry for Emma and Anna and all the other kids he cannot help.


	13. 12. castiel

Wednesday arrives with little fanfare, overcast but with no promise of snow. Castiel goes through the morning routine like he does every day and tries to ignore Claire’s sudden attitude about everything. She complains about her clothes, her hair, the fact Castiel won’t buy her any makeup, and even the cereal that he bought on their last grocery shopping excursion, even though _she_ is the one who picked it out. His patience is wearing thin by the time he drops her off in front of the school ー so much so that he has to grit his teeth when she slams the car door, for fear of speaking angrily. He does, however, give in to the urge to yell at other drivers as he heads to work.

After he’d gotten home Saturday night, he’d thanked Garth and Bess for watching Claire. Garth waved off the display of gratitude, saying “It’s what friends do,” and Bess had assured Castiel that Claire was an angel, no problem at all. They’d left shortly after that, leaving him alone in the silent house, and he’d locked the doors and checked the windows before going upstairs. His daughter was asleep in her bed, sprawled across the mattress; he had walked across the room and gently disentangled her from the blankets, and pulled them up to her shoulders. She hadn’t moved even as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. It had taken a while, but he’d finally managed to fall asleep with the girl from the hospital firmly on his mind.

The sky outside his window was still dark when he was joined awake by someone climbing into his bed. He’d rolled over when he felt Meg scooting closer; she’d rested her forehead against his chest and let out a stuttering sigh. He had brushed her curls away from his face so that they weren’t tickling his nose and fallen back asleep holding onto his best friend. This was the third time since Christmas that she’d come over to sleep in his bed after a long shift. The first time it had ever happened, two years ago, she’d explained that sometimes, she needed the physical contact of someone she cared about and loved to help her deal with the emotional drain from her job. Castiel had understood exactly what she meant and never once begrudged her her needs.

Castiel shakes his head as he stops at a red traffic light, trying to dislodge the frustration still clinging desperately to his mind. He knows going into the office while in a bad mood makes for a long, miserable day. And that’s not including Missouri’s mysterious ability to seemingly sense what her employees are thinking with unwavering accuracy; Castiel would much rather not have to deal with the questions, so he parks his car in the lot outside the office and forces himself to take deep, calming breaths. It isn’t quite as effective as yoga, but it will have to do for now. Once he’s sure his foul temperament is locked away, he climbs out of the driver’s seat and heads inside.

No one seems to notice that his smile doesn’t _quite_ reach his eyes, and he breathes a sigh of relief upon reaching his cubicle. His computer hums as it boots up, the screen finally flickering to life. Castiel types in his log-in details and pulls his legal pad from his messenger bag. Flipping to the page with the notes from Saturday night, he grabs a pen, starts writing out questions to ask Mrs Lindstrom when he does a home visit and Dr Winchester today when he stops by the psychologist’s office. He finishes with that relatively quickly ー he’s been a social worker long enough that he no longer wavers when it comes to deciding the right questions to ask for the most honest answers ー and checks his schedule to find a blank time-slot. He types in _Meeting_ in the square for one o’clock, waits until the spinning circle turns back into a pointer, and closes out of the Calendar. Missouri sends a short email of confirmation that she’s received the synced update to the mass calendar. Castiel doesn’t bother replying, instead beginning to type up his notes about Emma Lindstrom’s visit to the emergency department.

The hours tick by slowly, made even slower by Castiel’s constant checking of the time. He tells himself it’s merely because of his concern for Emma that he wants to get this meeting over with, but in reality, he is nervous about meeting the man who got Claire to talk about her mother for the first time since she was five. Plus, he wants to find out if the voice that Castiel heard through the phone when he’d made the appointment sounds even better in person. But that is a thought he’s going to keep to himself. It’s not only a violation of ethics (Missouri had made her position on interoffice relationships very clear early on: _Don’t_ , and while Dr Winchester and Castiel don’t work in the same office or have the same employer, they will have to work together until Emma’s case is closed), but it’s also incredibly unprofessional of Castiel to even consider letting himself ogle the psychologist and possibly be attracted to him. Castiel does have to admit, if only to himself, that it’s been quite a long time since he’s felt any stirring of more than civility towards another person, which, he assumes, is most of the reason that he’d been so affected by hearing Dr Winchester’s husky drawl.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, the alarm going off without sound, and Castiel stares at the clock in the bottom right corner of his computer screen. Where has the time gone? Not even five minutes ago, it was only quarter after ten, and it’s now 12:30. He scrubs a hand over his face, dismisses the alarm, and packs up his bag. Missouri grins widely as he passes her office door, and he hears her call after him to remember that Claire is just a teenager. He’s honestly so used to her almost-psychic levels of knowledge that he doesn’t do more than continue walking to his car. He vaguely remembers the way to the building that Dr Winchester’s practise is in, but he doesn’t want to be wrong and get lost, so he plugs the address into his phone’s GPS and presses Start Route.

It takes a full circle of the parking lot for Castiel to find a space; he presses on the brake pedal, signals a left turn, and waits for the SUV to reverse out of the spot. As soon as he can, he parks neatly between the lines and shuts off the engine. There’s a chilly breeze when he steps out of the car, and he wishes he’d remembered to grab his winter hat when the wind whips his hair around. He steps inside the entryway with a heavy sigh, ignoring the way his hands are already tingling from the cold, and makes sure to wipe his feet on the mat before making his way through the door with Dr Dean Winchester’s name on it.

A redheaded woman sits behind the reception desk; her face is a mask of concentration as she stares at her computer screen and her fingers tap at the arrows on her keyboard, and Castiel watches her lips move as she mutters under her breath. She doesn’t appear to have noticed him, so he gazes around the waiting room. The walls are decorated with simple, framed prints and lined with rather comfortable-looking chairs ー nothing like what he’d experienced as a child. With a quick reprimand to himself that stops the memories from coming forth, he decides to take action, walking briskly up to the desk and tapping on the surface with his knuckles. The woman jumps in her seat, and her cheeks flush bright red in her embarrassment. She bites at her bottom lip for a few seconds, her dark eyes widened slightly, before taking a deep breath and giving him a professional, bland smile.

“Hi there! What can I help you with today?”

“Hello. Is Doctor Winchester in?”

“Can I tell him what this is in regards to, Mr…?”

“Novak.”

Something shifts in her expression; he can see the moment she recognises his name by the dawning in her eyes. “Right. Of course. Um… Be right back.”

She disappears through a doorway behind her desk, not bothering to knock and wait for an answer. Castiel remains standing at the desk but turns away so that he can’t be accused of snooping. A long, rectangular block on the end of the ledge catches his eye; it reads _Reception ー Charlie_. He huffs out a quiet laugh, thinks that ‘Charlie’ suits the woman. He can hear muffled voices from beyond the closed door. When she comes back out, she smiles ー a true smile.

“He’ll be right out. Go ahead and have a seat. You want a drink?”

“Oh. Uh, no, thank you. I’m fine.”

She shrugs and returns to her seat. A moment later, the door opens again, and out steps a man who Castiel can only assume is Dr Winchester. His heart flutters in his chest, a lurch somewhere deep in his gut following closely behind. And he truly cannot blame his body for reacting the way it is. The other man is ridiculously, unfairly gorgeous. Dark golden-brown hair rests in short, soft-looking spikes on the top of his head; green eyes shine from beneath slightly-furrowed brows. His plain grey shirt strains slightly in the shoulders, and Castiel barely manages to stop his gaze from raking down the rest of the man’s body, though he can’t help but notice how the dark jeans accentuate the strength in the Dr Winchester's gently-bowed legs. All in all, the man looks like he’s just stepped out of a damn magazine. He smiles and walks over to Castiel’s side, hand outstretched.

“Hi, Mr Novak, Charlie says you’re looking for me?”

Castiel nods, shaking the man’s hand. “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about one of your patients, Emma Lindstrom.”

Dr Winchester’s open expression changes, becoming less genial and more worried. Charlie’s gone still in her chair, but Castiel can see, from the corner of his eye, that she’s staring at her computer screen without really paying attention to her game any longer. The psychologist clears his throat, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and rubs at his temple.

“Who’d you say you work for?” he asks, his tone sharp and guarded.

“Child Protective Services.” Castiel hands over his work ID badge that bears his photo, name, and employment title. “Is there anywhere we could talk privately?”

“Of course, yeah. Follow me.”

The room in which they end up is devoid of decorations except for one large, round table and a solitary potted plant in the far corner. The overhead lights are bright, harsh, reflecting dully off the wax-coated leaves of the fake ficus. At Dr Winchester’s gesture, Castiel takes a seat in one of the chairs, the same kind as those in the waiting room; he waits until the other man is sitting as well before pulling out his notepad.

“As I said, Doctor Winchester ー”

“Dean.”

“ー Pardon?”

“Call me Dean.”

“Oh. Okay. As I said, Dean, I need to talk to you about Emma, specifically her treatment and her mother.”

Dean waves a hand, signalling Castiel to continue. Castiel watches that hand as it moves gracefully in a rolling motion in the air, then snaps his focus back to the reason he’s even here. He coughs quietly and glances down at his list of questions.

“Right. Has Mrs Lindstrom appeared to know what’s happened to Emma, or acted as if she’s hiding something in any way?”

“No, not at all. She’s been very concerned about Emma since the very first session.”

“Would you say she’s doing everything possible to help Emma?”

“Absolutely.” Dean sighs and leans forward, forearms coming to rest on the tabletop. “Look, man, the first time Emma came in, I’d had to watch her attempted to skin herself, she was digging her nails into her flesh so hard. She was crying ー sobbing, really ー and gasping for breath. I ended up having to call Mrs Lindstrom in to take Emma away within ten minutes because Emma couldn’t calm down. Mrs Lindstrom literally begged me to help her daughter, said Emma’s all she had left since the separation, and she’d move Earth from its orbit if it meant saving Emma.

“So yeah, I’d have to say that woman knows nothing of what’s happening to her daughter, she’s not been the cause of Emma’s problems, and she won’t give up until she finds out and can finally start helping Emma get through whatever’s going on.”

Castiel nods as he finishes writing down what Dean’s said. The ache in his heart has lessened just enough to not feel like it’s strangling him at hearing that Emma’s mother is doing her best. “Thank you, Dean. You’ve been very helpful. Would you mind letting me see Emma’s files? I need them to finish this report. I can come back with an officer and a warrant, if you’d prefer.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean breaks into laughter. The skin by his eyes crinkles, and his head falls back. Castiel is awestruck at the deep sound coming from the other man -a rich melody that’s far too pleasing for the situation. Dean finally quiets are a moment, wiping at his eyes, seemingly oblivious to the way Castiel’s gaze follows his movements.

“Sorry, but, uh, that was… Yeah, no, you don’t need to involve cops or judges. Mrs Lindstrom already gave her consent. I wouldn’t have talked to you if she hadn’t. Wait here. I’ll bring ‘em to ya.”

Ten minutes later, Castiel is walking back to his car with a folder full of copies of Emma’s session summaries in his bag and, in his wallet, a business card for Dean Winchester, personal phone number scrawled on the back (“ _If you have any more questions_ ”).


	14. 13. dean

“So fucking unfair,” Dean mutters to himself as he watches Mr C. Novak exit the building.

“Don’t worry, you’re a close second in comparative attractiveness.”

Dean twitches, startled; he hadn’t heard Charlie approaching. She flashes him a grin, impish and utterly unrepentant. He mock-glares and playfully shoves at her shoulder. Reluctantly, he turns away from the sight of black slacks fitting snugly around a perfect ass. It’s not an appropriate time to be getting worked up ー Cole is supposed to be arriving at two.

Thankfully, Dean manages to get through the day without thinking about Mr Novak. It takes a lot of willpower not to allow his thoughts to derail to clear blue eyes and dark, unkempt hair, but he manages it. He helps Charlie close up the office after the last patient leaves, watches her get into her beat-up Gremlin, and stands in the weak sunlight for a few minutes until his nose starts going numb and breathing is akin to inhaling shards of shattered crystals. The drive home is full of Zeppelin and traffic; he grumbles the entire time as other drivers cut him off and merge lanes without using their indicators, but finally, he’s pulling up in front of the house he’d purchased and made it into something worth more than what he’d gotten it for.

It had been in foreclosure when he’d found it on a real estate app, and he’d immediately scheduled a walk-through. The hardwood floors were in decent enough shape, but the walls needed minor repairs and fresh coats of paint. The worst problem, though, had been the bathroom and attached laundry room. The floor was tile that was faded and chipped, exposing the flooring underneath; he’d thanked his lucky stars that there was no mildew or black mould like he anticipated at the sight of the warped wood. The washer and dryer hookups were barely held together with duct tape, and the tub was filthy and covered in coppery hard-water stains; the showerhead was a simple thing, no adjustable settings, and crusted over with calcium build-up. After signing the papers and moving in, he’d borrowed his father’s truck, gone to the local Home Depot, and stocked up on fresh lumber and wood stains. Twelve hours later, the tile had been yanked up and replaced, and he had spent Saturday evening staining the floors. This meant he drove to his parents’ house any time he needed to pee or to take a shower, which was just plain annoying but a necessary evil so that he wouldn’t have footprints on his floor. Mary had come over on Sunday to help peel old wallpaper off the walls in preparation for Dean to prime and paint them. It had taken a couple weeks for everything to come together right ー between the fixes needed on the plumbing and the patches on the walls and the unexpected electrical issues that cropped up, it took a lot of hard work, but Dean was proud of his success when he finally stepped back from putting the finishing touches to the painting on the bedroom walls and realised it was the last thing that needed to be done.

He reheats the pizza he'd cooked for dinner last night, eating three slices while standing at the counter. Once he's sufficiently fed, he grabs a soda from the fridge and makes his way to the living room. There's a rerun of _M*A*S*H_ playing on TV, so he settles in for a few hours of Hawkeye and Gang's shenanigans. He only gets half an episode in when his phone beeps; he attempts to ignore it, far more interested in Radar knowing exactly what Lieutenant Colonel Blake is going to say or do or need, but it chimes again not even five minutes later. Sighing, he leans forward and grabs the device, swiping across the screen to unlock it.

**From: Bitch** _I really wish Crowley didn't trust me so much sometimes…_  
**From: Bitch** _Mind if I come over?_

**To: Bitch** _Yeah doors open_

Dean has almost finished with the first episode by the time Sam enters the house and plops down on the couch. Neither man speaks for a while, content to just enjoy the silent company. During a commercial for life insurance, Dean turns to his brother and takes in the tired lines and dark circles under Sam’s eyes, the way that his long frame seems to melt tiredly into the sofa.

“Crowley been workin’ you to the bone?”

“Yeah,” sighs Sam, scrubbing at his jaw with one hand. “Seems like for every case I win, he adds two more. Don't get me wrong ー I'm thrilled that he has faith in my abilities as a lawyer, but honestly, some of them can and should go to Brady.”

“Isn't Brady that smarmy asshole?”

“He’s not a smarmy asshole, Dean. He's...just an asshole.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. “Not much difference there, kiddo.”

“Dude.”

“Sorry,” replies Dean with a grimace.

“Still in ‘Doctor Winchester’ mode?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

“How’d today go?”

At Sam’s expectant look, Dean explains as best as he can without giving away any confidential details, though he wants nothing more than to be able to talk everything out and get advice. Hell, he'd take just having someone to hold him or just _be there_ ー someone besides family; his mother is amazing at comforting him, at reassuring him that he's doing the best he can possibly do, but it isn't the same as having someone he chooses to love by his side during these emotional struggles. He's okay with flings and one-night-stands, but he wants more than that now.

Dean shakes away the sinking feeling of loneliness and focuses on his brother. He regrets it immediately when Sam cocks an eyebrow and grins mischievously.

“Was he hot?”

“Excuse me, _what_?”

“The CPS worker. Was he hot?”

Dean splutters before settling on rolling his eyes. “He was only checking up on a patient, Sam, it isn't like he was asking me to Prom.”

“Right, right.” Sam nods, a knowing expression on his face, but thankfully, he lets the subject drop; Dean breathes a sigh of relief when his brother starts talking again. “So Eileen wants us all to pitch in to buy Mom and Dad a present for their anniversary. Any ideas?”

Taking it as an olive branch of sorts, Dean jumps on the topic change with perhaps too much enthusiasm, but he really can't be bothered to regulate that. Not when the only other option is to be teased by his younger brother like they are two teen girls at a sleepover. So he lets himself get lost in the brainstorming and ignores the little voice in his head whispering _Hell yes, he was hot._

That voice is a traitor anyway.


	15. 14. castiel

Unfortunately for Castiel, Claire isn’t in any better of a mood the next day. They spend the the morning speaking only in monosyllables, only when necessary, and even then, Castiel is worried that he might say the wrong thing and set her off. He wonders, just a small thought in the back of his mind as he drives out of their neighbourhood, if something is going on at school. She hasn’t mentioned her friends again since she originally brought the subject up. Castiel wants to ask, wants to push for some answers, but he refrains. No matter how he feels, Claire needs to know that she can trust him and come to him on her own time without fear of consequence.

To his surprise, she kisses his cheek and says “Bye, Dad” before getting out of the car, though she still slams the door behind her. He manages to subdue the urge to flinch at the loud noise, and his shoulders are slightly less tense as he pulls away from the curb. Missouri doesn’t wait long after he arrives to beckon him into her office. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she rounds her desk to sit in the chair; Castiel lowers himself onto the seat opposite her.

“I hear you met Doctor Winchester.”

“Yes. He was very forthcoming with information.”

“Yeah, he’s a good boy, always tries his best to make sure his kids are taken care of.”

“Kids?”

“That boy loves his patients and would do anything to help them.” Missouri smiles across the desk at him, her large brown eyes soft and warm. “He’s one of the best psychologists in this state. Of course, his heart is gonna get him hurt.”

“He seemed very...invested in Emma’s wellbeing.”

“Well, of course he is. He, Dean takes it very hard if he feels like he’s failing them kids. Anyway. How is it going with that case?”

“Mrs Lindstrom and Doctor Winchester have been open about what they know, as much as they can. I have an appointment scheduled to talk to Emma tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll know more then.”

“Okay. That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Castiel.”

He stands, nods, and turns toward the door. Her voice calling him name stops him in his tracks, and he glances at her over his shoulder.

“How is Claire?”

“Claire… Claire is Claire.”

“I bet she is,” laughs Missouri as she waves him away.

At his desk, Castiel goes over his notes about Emma, everything he was told about her and the memos on sessions that Mrs Lindstrom had given permission for Dr Winchester to hand over. Reading the psychologist’s records is worse than anything that Castiel had been able to imagine ー he bites his lip as he reads particularly bad summaries and battles tears at the very last bulletpoint.

_Was very defiant. Had panic attack in session, threw toys and screamed, slapped me in face. Threw herself on floor and sobbed/panicked, apologised, begged for me not to touch her. Got her calmed down, she fell asleep. Father came to pick Emma up. Emma’s reaction was negative ー didn’t want to go with him, wouldn’t look anyone in the eye, very closed off. ~~Father???~~_

Castiel jots down _Joseph Lindstrom ー question_ in the margin of his notepad before closing the file. His heart aches in his chest, and his breakfast is threatening to make a reappearance. He jerks to his feet, shoves the folders and notepad into his file cabinet, and barely gets it locked before he storms out of his cubicle and toward the elevator. The air outside bites at his cheeks, stings his eyes, but he can’t even blame the tears on the wind; the information he’s just read has affected him more than it should. He leans against the icy stone wall of the building and buries his face in his hands, shivering and shuddering with the cold and force of his crying. A warm hand on his shoulder a few minutes later startles him. He swipes his sleeve over his eyes and looks up into Garth’s face. The taller man’s lips are twisted into an expression of sympathy, and his eyes speak volumes.

“It never gets easier, does it?”

“No,” Castiel chokes out, “it really doesn’t.”

“I brought your coat. Didn’t know how long you’d be out here, but figured you’d want it anyway.”

“Thanks, Garth.”

Garth shrugs. “I know… I know we’re not supposed to talk about the cases, not in detail, but, just… Just remember that Bess and I are here if you ever, ya know, need to talk.”

“Thanks. I-I appreciate that.”

Garth smiles slightly then heads back into the building. Castiel watches him go, pulling his coat on once the other man has disappeared through the doors. He stays out in the winter air for another couple of minutes until he feels like he has his emotions under control; nobody gives him a second glance when he passes on his way to his desk. They’ve all been there, some are still in the same position. None of them would begrudge him for being so overwhelmed and affected. Missouri’s only rule is _Don’t be a robot, but if you’re too attached, pass the case._ It’s worked well so far. Until now.

Thankfully, the rest of the day passes easier. He can’t quite forget what he read about Emma this morning, but he keeps the information pushed to the back of his mind as much as possible. He gets cases filed, one home visit done, and a phone call regarding a previous case made by the time he leaves to pick Claire up from school. He’s exhausted, physically and mentally drained, so when Claire asks if they can just order a pizza for dinner, he readily agrees; she makes the call to the nearest Papa John’s while he changes out of his work clothes and into a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved shirt. He comes to a stop at the bottom of the staircase at the sight of his daughter standing in the entry hall, his wallet in one of her hands and a small rectangular card in the other. She glances up when the step squeaks as he puts his weight on it.

“Why do you have this?”

“What is ‘this’?”

“Doctor Winchester’s card. Did you go back?”

“Yes, I ー” he begins, but she immediately cuts him off, her cheeks aflame with her anger.

“ _Why_? Didn’t I prove I’m fine?” She scoffs, stomps her foot. “For God’s sake, Dad, why don’t you just come out and say that you don’t fucking trust me?”

“Claire Grace Novak, that is _enough_. I didn’t go back to his office because of you. My visit had _nothing_ to do with you but everything for one of my cases. Even if I _had_ gone back to talk to him about you, it would still not be enough of a reason for you to use that language toward me. So, for cursing, you’re grounded until Monday morning. No phone, no video games, no television, no going anywhere unless it’s with me.”

Claire’s gaze drops but not before he sees the shame and tears in her blue eyes. She sniffles as she hands over her cell phone, and he slides it into the pocket of his sweats. She mumbles something under her breath, too quick and soft for him to make out, and he takes his wallet from her hand. Before he can ask her to repeat what she said, she shoves past him and storms up the stairs. The halls ring with the echoes of her door slamming.

Claire doesn’t come down for dinner, so Castiel puts the boxes of pizza in the fridge for her whenever she’s ready and cleans up the little bit of mess in the kitchen. He flips the switch, and the room is left being illuminated solely by the light above the stove. He hates that Claire isn’t talking to him, but he hates that she deemed it acceptable to jump to conclusions and speak to him that way. He’s tried reminding himself multiple times that she’s merely a teenager, this is a normal occurrence for families all over the world, but it’s not easy to accept that logic. He’d not had much of a childhood, and his teenage years were less than desirable, so this kind of behaviour out of him would have never been tolerated; he most likely wouldn’t have seen the light of day for at least six months beyond school if he’d ever spoken to his parents the way Claire did this evening. He inhales unsteadily, releasing it slowly, and opens his book, forces himself to get lost in the world on the pages.

“Dad?”

Castiel tears his gaze from the book; glancing at the clock, he sees it’s been two hours since Claire barricaded herself in her room. He sets the book aside and turns to her, giving her his full attention. His brows furrow when he sees that her face is bright red, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot. “What’s up, bumblebee?”

“I, um, I started my period,” she whispers, and Castiel stares at her, a growing horror filling him.


	16. 15. dean

Dean steps out into the hallway, leans against the wall, and waits as Charlie gathers up her belongings and shuts down the computers. It’s been a long, slowly-passing day, not made any easier by intruding thoughts of Mr Novak and worrying about Emma. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs heavily. He wonders idly how upset Charlie would be if he cancels going to her place for dinner tonight; it’s only the thought of the fact that she wouldn’t be angry, instead only worried for his well-being, that stops him from doing so. He doesn’t need something else to feel guilty about. So he resigns himself to sticking to the plan and locks up once she joins him in the corridor. Her Gremlin is gone, having been picked up by John an hour ago; Dean unlocks the Impala’s doors, sliding into the driver’s seat, and starts up the engine as Charlie buckles up.

The drive to her apartment is filled only with the sound of Zeppelin playing softly in the background. Charlie plays on her phone, her finger sliding across the screen almost without thought. Dean can feel the questioning glances she shoots his way, but he ignores her as much as he can. His thoughts are too jumbled right now, and trying to explain them ー even to Charlie, the best friend he’s ever had ー would only serve to confuse and frustrate him even more. Finally, he pulls into the guest parking lot outside of her apartment building, finding a spot as close to her door as possible, and parks. She steps out first, and Dean just knows she’s giving him the chance to compose himself. He draws in a steadying breath, pushes open the door. With a sigh, he follows her to the door and pulls his jacket closer as she searches for her house key on the ring. Dean isn’t sure how she’s managed to acquire so many keys, nor does he know what they’re all for, but thankfully, it doesn’t take long for her to find the right key, slip it into the lock, and step inside.

He’s been in her apartment multiple times, but he never fails to be amazed at the variety of bright colours. He toes off his boots by the front door and nudges them out of the way, then makes his way to the armchair that he knows from experience is incredibly comfortable. Allowing himself to sink into the cushion, he lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. He listens to the sounds of Charlie moving around in the kitchen, glasses clinking against each other, the tap turning on, and her soft humming. It’s peaceful here amongst the brilliant yellows and blues, the overstuffed cushions and thick rugs under his feet. He pushes himself to sit upright when he hears Charlie clearing her throat right in front of him; she’s holding out a glass of soda, and he takes it from her with a thankful smile. She sits on the couch, curling her feet underneath her, and he takes a sip of his drink in an effort to not have to speak.

“Are you okay?”

And leave it to Charlie to get to the heart of it. Dean sighs, scratches at his forehead.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m okay. Just exhausted. Everything is just, it’s so much. And I can’t do anything to make it all better for anyone, and I…”

“It’s breaking your heart.” Charlie gazes at him, her expression sympathetic. “Dean, you need a break. You do so much, you see and help so many kids, and you can’t keep struggling to handle that burden alone. I try, Sam tries, everyone tries to help, but there’s only so much we can do to help you. It hurts _us_ to see you hurting all the time. So maybe you should take, like, a week off or something. Or-or even just a day or two, just to go camping, get away from the city, and just...be.”

“I can’t do that, Charlie. Not with what’s going on.”

“How about this. In a month, or whenever it’s warm enough again, you and I will pack up, spend a weekend out in the wilderness, just us. No cell phones, no internet. Blue skies, wide open spaces, us. That’s all.”

He raises a brow, scoffing lightly, as he stares at the floor. “You, away from your internet world?”

“I can do it!” she protests. “I _can_ , for you.”

Dean clears his throat though he fails spectacularly in his effort to get rid of the lump that’s blocking his airway. Charlie stays silent as if she knows what’s going through his mind. He sniffles as silently as he can.

“We’ll talk about it.”

It’s all he can promise right now, but it seems to be enough. Thankfully, the front door opens before anything else can be said, and Dorothy steps into the apartment, shuddering at the sudden warmth. She unwinds her scarf from around her neck, tucks her gloves into her pockets, and hangs her coat up on the pegs by the door. She comes to a halt when she sees Dean in the chair.

“Oh, hey, Dean. You staying for dinner?”

“Uh, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course. It’s mostly leftovers, though, just a fair warning.”

“Nothing wrong with leftovers,” replies Dean with a laugh; if it sounds watery, no one mentions it.

The meal is full of talks about Dorothy’s latest adventures. Dean doesn’t see the appeal in being an archaeologist, but Dorothy loves it, loves all the different cultures she learns about, so he’s happy that she’s happy. She’s been good for Charlie, too. They had met when Charlie was fresh from a break-up with Glinda; while there was nothing inherently _bad_ about Glinda, she also wasn’t much of a girlfriend. Too many times Dean dealt with having Charlie texting him because yet again, she’d been stood up because Glinda forgot about their date. If Glinda had only spent a little more time on Charlie and less time on her theatre stuff, the relationship would have been really amazing. But she didn’t, and the fallout from that was...epic. He thought he’d taken it bad when he and Cassie broke up, but Charlie was absolutely gutted. For three weeks, she refused to even so much as change out of her pyjamas or to move from her spot on the couch. It was the first day out of her apartment that she’d run into Dorothy ー quite literally. Dean had taken her out to lunch before an impromptu day at the spa, and she’d just turned the corner to the bathrooms when there was Dorothy. Dean had watched Charlie stumble through nervous flirting before Dorothy had taken pity on her and put the poor girl out of her misery. They’d exchanged numbers and went their separate ways. It wasn’t long before they were talking every day, and Glinda who?

Even though Dorothy is gone a lot for work, she’s never once forgotten anything that is remotely important to Charlie. New video game is dropping that Charlie’s been looking forward to? Dorothy is right there, either in person or via Skype, the instant the game is available to listen to Charlie wax poetic (or rant and rave angrily) about the game. If Charlie has had a bad day, Dorothy is the first person ready and willing to help pull Charlie through. Dean is incredibly thankful for that day in the cafe.

Dean helps to clean up after dinner and makes an exit. He still has to go grocery shopping if he wants to have Sam and Eileen over tomorrow. It’s only going on seven, but evening has already settled over the town. The sky is full of wispy clouds, spreading moonlight across the sky. The cold is biting now that the sun isn’t out to give even the little heat it manages, and Dean’s nose immediately begins stinging in the low temperature.

The grocery store is busy, unexpectedly crowded for being so late in the evening. Dean would have thought it being after seven would mean fewer people milling about, but he is so wrong. Thankfully, they all seem to be congregating in line at the checkout lanes, so he simply manoeuvres his shopping cart around the mass of bodies and toward the meat section. His mind wanders as he weaves his way through the store, body on autopilot as he grabs items off the shelves. Now that Charlie and Dorothy aren’t there to distract him, he can't stop thinking about Anna and Emma and other patients he's failed since he started his career.

Everyone has told him time and again that he can't save them all, that sometimes things are just too far out of his control, but he hates it. He hates that they're right. He hates that he can't give a decent life to every child that comes through his door. He hates it all, but he refuses to give up. Dean tries to force his thoughts to the children he's succeeded in helping, tries to think of Kevin and Lucas who has started working through the trauma he endured, and it works. A little. Unfortunately, the memories of Anna’s tear-stained face when Zachariah yanked her out of her sessions and the way that Emma cowered at her father’s side, those are the biggest images in his mind right now.

Dean’s just turned the corner of the aisle when a loud crashing noise echoes through the quiet, and he glances up from the shopping list in his hand. The social worker, Mister Novak, stands at the end of his own cart, and Claire stands beside him, her eyes wide. Dean barely gets the chance to open his mouth to apologise when her gaze flits down to their items, and he watches as she hastily rearranges products to cover the box of tampons and bag of pads that are in the bottom. He stifles a smile and focuses on speaking to her father.

“Hey, sorry ’bout that, man.”

Mister Novak cocks his head slightly. “It’s all right. Are… Are you okay?”

“Just perils of the job,” Dean responds with a shrug.

“Yes, well, if it helps, I will keep you as informed as I legally can about…” He glances at his daughter, though she appears to be concentrating as hard as possible on anyone other than the men conversing at the end of the pasta aisle, and lowers his voice a bit, “the patient’s progression through the system. And I don’t think she’ll be in for long.”

“Why’s that?”

“You did not hear this from me, but I don’t think she’ll be in for long. Her mother is doing everything she can to cooperate with the investigation.”

“Thanks. I, uh, I needed to hear that, I guess.”

“It’s not a problem. Well, I’d better get the rest of the groceries. Have a wonderful evening, Doctor Winchester.”

“See ya.”

Getting the rest of his groceries takes very little time, and it isn’t long before Dean is carrying the bags into the house; he shivers as he sets the groceries on the table and heads for the thermostat. _No fucking wonder_ , he thinks darkly at the 62 on the screen. His fingers fumble on the dial, but he manages to get it set to seventy-five. He puts the groceries away as quickly as possible before heading to his bedroom. The clock on the nightstand tells him it’s only eight-twenty, but Dean thinks it’s beyond time for him to go to bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better.


End file.
